Ashes of Time
by Dius Corvus
Summary: Four years have passed since the War ended, and twenty five since Harry Potter disappeared. Severus Snape has learned to live a life of loneliness, but the past, coming from the icy north, will not leave him alone. Sequel to Tread Softy, SSHP COMPLETE
1. The Mission North

**ASHES OF TIME**

**Dius Corvus**

_Four years have passed since the War ended; twenty-seven since Jonathan Frost disappeared. Snape, no longer at Hogwarts, has learned the life of loneliness. But the past, coming from the icy north, will not leave him alone_. _Sequel to Tread Softly._

_A/N: This follows Tread Softly, but it is not necessary to read Tread Softly to read this. To give a recap of events (spoilers ahead!), Harry defeats Voldemort in a final encounter that throws him back to the time of Severus Snape and the Marauders. He masquerades as a student under the alias Jonathan Frost. As he and Snape get closer, Harry learns that the final encounter forced his soul to merge with Voldemort's, giving him both immense power and darkness. Suffering from a sense of fatality and guilt due to crimes committed by both components of his identity,__Harry leaves Hogwarts for a place of cold numbness._

_Once again, many thanks to Procyon Black for her careful beta and insight on life near the pole. Neither of us is entirely certain about Latin grammar, so any help with regards to that would be welcome._

* * *

"…but now I know  
That twenty centuries of stony sleep  
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,  
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,  
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?"  
- 'The Second Coming,' William Butler Yeats. 

"[He had already understood that he would never leave that room, for it was foreseen that the city of mirrors (or mirages) would be wiped out by the wind and exiled from the memory of men at the precise moment when Aureliano Babilonia would finish deciphering the parchments, and that everything written on them was unrepeatable since time immemorial and forever more, because races condemned to one hundred years of solitude did not have a second opportunity on earth."  
- _One Hundred Years of Solitude_, Gabriel Garcia Marquez.

"There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,  
Than are dreamt of in your philosophy."  
- _Hamlet_, William Shakespeare.

* * *

**Chapter 1: The Mission North**

Ginny sat impatiently at the bar, fidgeting with the bracelet around her left wrist. She tried to tune out the raucous Quidditch players a few feet in front of her, who were drooling at the sight of a writhing pole dancer. It was very difficult, especially since bits of the stripper's anatomy were practically in her face. She wasn't even good-looking, Ginny thought. The men around her were under some sort of lust charm, Ginny was sure, but she wondered how the charm could make that huge, hairy mole even remotely attractive.

It wasn't the first time she had been in a den, although this one—Hell's Chateau—was a first. They had a nice exterior, Ginny decided. Flashy red lights and a compulsion spell to boot. Inside, the walls were covered with mirrors that were charmed to distort rather than reflect, and the ceiling flickered with a dizzying array of lights. There were also, of course, the requisite poufs and couches, on which lounged the potheads with what looked like rolled up bits of parchment sticking from their lips. Some, Ginny noticed, were in a catatonic state. Others, particularly on the floor behind the couches, seemed to be engaged in some very strenuous activities. Ginny hoped that they at least knew each others' names before getting down to it.

She glanced at her watch, touched her bracelet, and sighed. It was typical of her fellow Auror to be late, but not this late. Maybe something was the matter. More likely, he was in a pub, banging his tankard at the Quidditch announcements.

"Ginny! There you are, I couldn't see you through this crowd."

Ginny shifted aside to let her fellow Auror take a seat. "You're late," she accused and glanced at her watch. "Twenty minutes late."

"Sorry," Cormac McLaggen said. "Hey, a lager if you would?" The bartender nodded. "Whew. I need that."

"What were you doing?"

"Helping Francine shop."

"Aww," said Ginny, smiling, "that's sweet."

Cormac gave her a disgruntled look. "Her excuse was that I'd have to wear it. But I think she just wants to torture me. She enjoys that, you know. Thanks, pal," he said, and took a drink.

Ginny checked her bracelet again. "I'm sure that's why she said yes."

"Yeah, think so too," said Cormac, letting out a loud sigh and then a burp. "Sorry," he said, sounding completely unapologetic. He glanced around for the first time, and stopped short at the sight of the stripper.

Ginny prodded him with her wand. "_Sobrius_," she intoned.

Cormac jerked back slightly, then gave a sheepish smile. "Thanks."

Ginny rolled her eyes. "I didn't know you liked giant, hairy moles."

"Hey, she's got a charm on her, probably a really strong one," Cormac said defensively. He glanced back over his shoulder and turned with a rather queasy look on his face. "God, can't believe the size of the thing."

"Do you have the bracelet?" Ginny said briskly.

"Yeah." He reached into his robe.

"You're not wearing it," Ginny said, looking pointedly at his bare wrist.

"I can't wear it," Cormac complained, drawing out a small band of gold. "People would think that I'm a pouf."

"What would you have liked the D.O.M. to have made, then? A codpiece?"

Cormac may have blushed, but Ginny couldn't tell in the red-colored light. He leaned closer, and she saw his lips mutter an anti-eavesdropping spell. "Any activity?" he muttered.

Ginny shook her head. She looked around casually, making sure they were not being watched. "My bracelet hasn't gone cold at all."

"But you're sure they work," said Cormac.

"Of course they work, Hermione's the head of the D.O.M., isn't she?"

Cormac took another drink of the lager. Ginny felt a bit annoyed. Hermione had told her that it was unusual for the head of the Department of Mysteries to be a woman—there had only been two others in the past two-hundred fifty years, and one of them had been an interim head—but Ginny was surprised at where such idiocy popped up. She wondered if maybe Cormac had a personal grudge against Hermione. Ginny knew that Cormac had been two years ahead of her at Hogwarts, and one year ahead of Hermione, but other than that, she was in the dark.

They said nothing for a while, and Ginny looked around the room, hoping the sad feeling that came whenever she thought of the past would leave. The pounding thud and jerky flashes of light only jolted her uncomfortably; she wished, briefly, that she were back in her own flat, soaking in the bathtub with the sound of Celestina Warbeck crooning from the radio. It had been a long day.

"He looks a bit familiar," Cormac said, nudging Ginny's elbow. She turned to look at where he was pointing with a slight tilt of his wand. "Don't know where I've seen him before."

The figure in question was sitting hunched on one of the poufs. It was difficult to tell if it was a man or a woman, as a black cloak covered all of its features, save for the edge of a lanky curtain of hair that hung about its face. Ginny started; instinctively, she thought of Professor Snape, but what could he be doing in a den?

She started again. The bracelet on her wrist had grown cold. "It's here," she whispered, gripping her wand tightly and looking about the room.

Cormac had slipped the bracelet into his left hand and sat back, as though relaxing. "Another pint, please," he shouted.

Ginny felt her lips tugging in a grin. Cormac was very good at that. She glanced through the room, thinking fast through the blood thudding in her temples. The coldness of the bracelet sharpened to the point that Ginny knew whoever possessed the crackle was no more than an arm's length away. She glanced around her. There were several people walking in and out of the room. Whoever this was had to be walking in, she thought, her eye settling on a man who had just entered. He had the streaked party-clothes and bleached hair of most of the den's regulars, and was examining the room. Then he made his way towards the couches in the back, and Ginny felt the coldness recede.

"Cover me," she whispered and slipped nonchalantly from her stool.

Wand in hand, she forced her way through the crowd. The smell of weed had gotten stronger mere steps from the bar. Ginny caught sight of a few blank faces, whose bodies were gyrating mindlessly to the throbbing music. She suppressed a shudder; they reminded her of the victims of the War who had been _Crucioed_into oblivion.

The man had stepped past the hunched-over figure and paused. He seemed to be searching for someone. Ginny smirked; it was probably difficult telling who was who when everyone was a tangle of drugged and naked limbs on the ground. She stepped forward; the cold sharpened.

Ginny nearly tossed a curse off when she felt someone grab her upper arm. "Hey, redhead," a voice slurred. "Alone here? Let's have a dance, eh?"

"Thanks, I'm with him," she said, tilting her head at Cormac, who was placidly sipping his lager.

"C'mon, just a dance—"

The man had taken something out of his cloak and, bending down, was slipping it into the back pocket of someone who was sprawled, shirtless, on the floor. Ginny wrenched away and aimed her wand. "_Accio!_"

The package shot into her hand, and the coldness in the bracelet intensified. This is the real deal, Ginny thought grimly. Just holding it in her hand, the actual substance separated by a layer of thin gauze, was enough to make her aware of the effects.

"_Expelliarmus_!" she shouted, and a wand jerked out of the startled man's pocket and into her hands.

"In the name of the Ministry of Magic, I hereby arrest you for illegal possession—"

The man bolted for the crowd, but Ginny was expecting that. "_Petrificus Totalus_!" The man's arms and legs snapped together and, still hurtling forward from his earlier momentum, he toppled to the ground.

One down, another to go, Ginny thought as she turned to face the man on the ground. But to her dismay, there was no one there, besides a woman who was weakly waving an empty pint while lying on the floor. Ginny cursed. She scanned the room quickly; several people had noticed the scuffle, but nobody was dashing away as though their life depended on it. Her eye caught Cormac's for a moment, but he had only a frown on his face. Not helpful, Ginny thought, turning back to the back of the room.

For a moment her gaze rested on the cloaked figure. She hesitated. Suddenly, there was a squawk, and a bare-chested man shot up from the hunched figure's feet, clutching his rear in a most ungainly fashion. Ginny aimed her wand.

"_Stupefy_!" she shouted.

Cormac had jostled through the crowd to her side. "Got them all?"

"Yes, two," she said, pointing to the man who was glaring from the floor. "And this." She dropped the package into the bag Cormac was holding. There was a whirring noise, and Ginny knew the package had ended up on a desk in the Department of Misuse of Magical Substances.

Cormac pointed his wand. "_Funis! Loquor!"_ He cleared his throat. The man on the ground now had ropes strung around his body, but his mouth was no longer frozen. "In the name of the Ministry of Magic, I hereby arrest you for illegal possession of the drug cocaine, in its magically modified form, otherwise known as crackle. You waive your right to speak; anything you hereafter say—"

The man spat at them. "The White Knight will get you all," he snarled. "He'll get you! He will! The White Knight, he'll protect me!"

They were not as unnoticed as she had guessed, Ginny thought as she took in the half-turned glances they received. The name was causing even more of a reaction, hinting, she thought with a sinking of her stomach, of the effect of Voldemort's name.

"Anything you say hereafter may be used against you in your trial."

"The White Knight will get you, he'll—"

"_Silencio_. Ginny, hand me the other one, will you?"

Ginny levitated the limp body over a few poufs and to Cormac's feet. She couldn't resist glancing at the fellow's rear; there was a scorch mark, she saw, as though someone had lit a blowtorch there.

"Let's get out of here," Cormac said. "I don't think they've deactivated the wards yet. We'll have to take the Floo across the street."

"Yeah, you go first," Ginny said. Cormac gave her an odd look. "I've got a hunch I want to check up on. It's nothing, I'll be fine."

"Weasley," he began in the irritating voice that reminded Ginny of one of their supervisors, "we're not supposed to separate on duty…"

"You let me wait here alone for a good twenty minutes," Ginny interrupted. "If it'd been twenty five, I'd have had to take them on myself. And let me remind you of that time in Devon, it was you who told me to go on ahead because _you_ had to check up on something. Of course, you were actually having a beer with Colin Creevey…"

Cormac's face paled. "I was just… having an ale…"

"Yes, I know," Ginny said, "but you're in no place to give me that nonsense."

"Right," Cormac muttered. He levitated the two bodies in front of him, but paused. "Look, don't mention about Colin, all right? I was just, uh, catching up with him—"

"Don't worry, I won't," Ginny said with a grin. "I didn't know you were so concerned with being a goody two-shoes."

Cormac flushed, not out of embarrassed pleasure as he sometimes did, but in the uncomfortable way that made his face look like a mottled mushroom. "Yeah," he said gruffly. "Well, I'll be gone now." Without another word, he squeezed through the crowd, the two bodies bumping haphazardly against the dancers on the floor as he went.

That was interesting, Ginny thought. Sometimes Cormac acted more than a little oddly, but that was probably due to his big head. His brash arrogance could sometimes be very trying on her nerves.

A movement caught her eye; the hunched figure had stood, and was now pushing its way through the crowd. It was already halfway through the room. Ginny plunged back into the morass of sweaty bodies; she wanted to yell something to get the figure to stop, but she had no idea what to call him—if it was a him. The music was too loud anyway, making her sternum vibrate as though struck again and again by a blasting curse.

She shoved her way finally into the street. It was night, and the cool air blew across her sweaty skin. The cloaked figure had nearly reached the edge of the Apparition barrier.

"Wait!" Ginny shouted, running forward. "Professor?" she added, more hesitantly. The figure seemed not to have heard at first, but at the second call he paused enough for Ginny to reach his side. He pulled his hood back slowly.

"Professor Snape!" Ginny felt a flush of disbelief, mixed with a pleasure that surprised even herself.

Snape took her in, crossing his arms in his old way of silencing an entire classroom, the lines around his mouth settling into a faint, familiar frown. "Miss Weasley," he said coolly, "What an unexpected pleasure."

"I didn't think it was you," said Ginny, smiling hesitantly, "it was just a lucky hunch."

"Ah," he said, looking as though he might say something snide, but seemed to curb himself. "Is there a reason you decided to holler my name?"

"Well, thanks for helping out back there. That was you, wasn't it, Professor?"

"Yes, it was," Snape said, looking as though he wished it weren't. "You need not call me Professor, Miss Weasley. I am no longer obligated to suffer the horrors of the classroom."

"You know what they say. Once a professor, always a professor."

Snape smiled thinly. "Please. I do not need to be reminded of the likes of Longbottom."

"Neville's doing great in Brazil," Ginny said, a bit defensively. "I heard that he's writing a book on Herbology, and Fred says they're thinking of using it when it comes out for the upper level Herbology classes."

"Ah," said Snape, eyes glittering. "Hogwarts seems most desperate, of late." Before Ginny could say anything, he pulled back slightly. "But I am sure it will be an excellent text. It is not difficult to believe that Longbottom has abilities that exceed his competency in potions."

A truce, Ginny recognized, just as she realized that had not really been baiting her. "I'm curious, though," she began. She hesitated. It had been years since she'd seen Snape, even longer since she'd been in his class, but he looked no less intimidating with the slightly impatient inquiry of his eyebrow. But she was an Auror, Ginny reminded herself. She looked at him more closely. At first she would say that he had not changed since that last meeting in the Order headquarters, but it was not quite true; he looked thinner, and the shadows on his face were deeper. He had aged, she realized.

"Yes?" Snape prompted flatly.

"I'm curious why you were at Hell's Chateau, for starters."

"That, Miss Weasley, is my own business," he said coldly. "But rest assured. I am not dealing that abominable half-Muggle substance the Ministry seems so worried about."

"I didn't think you were, but good to know," said Ginny, smiling.

Snape drew his cloak around himself more tightly. "Are you planning to interrogate me, Miss Weasley? Exercising your Auror powers?"

"Professor, we're part of the old crowd," Ginny said. "I'm still making excuses for Mundungus, although Hermione and I sometimes wonder if it wouldn'tbe better if they just throw him in a cell for a few months."

"Hmm," said Snape. Coming from him, it was reassuring, thought Ginny, although his face showed nothing at all. "I've heard a few interesting things about the current state of the old crowd. It seems as though your brother is, shall we say, very involved."

"Oh, that," Ginny said darkly. "Fred's Order of the Phoenix." She shook her head. "He should stick to running Hogwarts. I've told him it's a bad idea, but he won't listen. He's made it into some sort of club. There're levels, and initiates, and you have to prove yourself before going to the next stage. I think it's stupid." She stopped, and, seeing Snape's coolly amused look, felt herself blush. Old habits die hard, she thought, especially with teachers. "Sorry, Professor. I was banging my cauldron there."

"What does your mother think of this?"

"She doesn't encourage him, but she's not stopping him either." She doesn't try stopping any of us anymore, Ginny thought, but held it in. An image flashed before her eyes, of her mother, sitting in her rocking chair and looking through photos of Ron, George, Charlie, her husband. Ginny pushed the thought out of her mind. Four years was still too short a time. "Anyway, I have to go back to the Ministry. Have a good day, professor. I hope I'll see you again soon."

Snape gave her a look that made it clear he begged to differ, but he said, politely, "And the same to you, Miss Weasley. _Aura patrocinor tu_."

Ginny started, but grinned. Trust Snape to know the traditional Auror farewell. "_Aura patrocinor tu_," she returned. Snape turned, drew his hood on, and disappeared into the street.

qp qp qp

"Granger wants to see you, Weasley."

Ginny looked up from her the stretch of parchment. The Head of Magical Law Enforcement Jack Demme—or "boss," as Tonks had convinced Ginny to call him—was standing in front of her desk, scanning the mess of parchment that covered it with a faint look of disapproval.

"Oh, Hermione?" said Ginny, feeling pleased. She stuck her quill in the inkpot and stood. No paperwork for the time being. Perhaps Cormac would deal with it, she thought, but decided that was distinctly impossible. "Did she way why?"

"Do you think Granger ever does?" Jack said, looking annoyed. Ginny grinned. "You might consider neatening up, Weasley."

"My side is clean, boss. Anyway, we made a crackle arrest."

"And that explains everything."

"Doesn't it?"

"Funny enough, it does," Jack said dryly. "Don't forget the Statutes of International Substance Control form. Tonks did, and all hell broke loose. Did Granger's bracelets work?"

"They did, very well," said Ginny, surprised. "Didn't Cormac tell you?"

"McLaggen has not come back yet."

"Oh. I s'pose he went to the dungeons first."

"Most likely. Don't keep Granger waiting."

Ginny stopped for some pepper-up coffee on the way there. She considered, without feeling the slightest bit guilty, the irony of the substance abuse inside the Ministry itself. Of course, this particular blend of Pepper-Up Potion and Muggle coffee was legal, but wasn't it in principle the same as crackle, a mix of a Euphoria Charm and cocaine?She drained her cup in the break room, which was empty except for a slightly nervous-looking, bespectacled young man sitting in a corner with a magazine in his lap. Ginny took a moment to wonder who he was, decided not to ask him if he was lost (he should figure that out by himself, she thought), and went to Hermione's office.

Ginny knocked and waited. She could hear voices inside—two, maybe three. "Come in," Hermione called.

Ginny pushed open the door and stopped short. "Fred! What're you doing here?"

"Ginny," said Fred, frowning with a smile on his lips and his arms held open as though expecting a hug, "is that the way to greet your favorite brother?" He had on a set of bright blue robes, which clashed horribly with the muted tastefulness of Hermione's office. He should stop trying to imitate Dumbledore, Ginny thought grimly.

"Sorry. You and Percy are pretty close, but I still choose Bill."

Hermione looked up from her desk. She hardly fits anymore, Ginny thought, taking in the distended stomach, which was bumping against the edge, even though the desk had been charmed to curve accommodatingly. "Hi, Ginny."

"Hi, Hermione." Ginny sat in a chair next to the one Fred was standing in front of, and leaned forward eagerly. "How's little Harry doing?"

"Kicking nonstop," Hermione said, smiling.

"Can I feel?"

"Of course," Hermione said. She pushed back slightly to give Ginny more room.

"Ooh! I can feel it! Oh, wow, he's got legs like a bludger." Ginny grinned; when Penelope had given birth to little Ron, Ginny had gotten to do the same, but that had been before she'd begun her Auror duties. In a strange way, spending so much time in the field made her appreciate Hermione's pregnancy even more. Sometimes, after a particularly difficult day, she would drop by and just bask in the presence of Hermione and her baby. It was like sitting in front of a waterfall, feeling a comforting spray fan her face. She wondered if other people felt it the way she did. Ginny looked up and noticed Fred watching her with a half-smile on his face.

She sat back. "So, just two weeks now?"

"Yes," said Hermione. "Honestly, I can't wait, if only to get Roger to stop nagging me to stay at home."

"You should hex him," Ginny said mischievously.

"Ginny, he can't defend himself."

"That's the whole point." Hermione's Muggle husband was more than a bit fussy, in Ginny's opinion. She was surprised that he had managed to adjust to everything that came with magic. But maybe most Muggles were like that, and her opinion had been distorted by Harry's relatives.

"I'll let you two hens catch up now," said Fred. He went to the fireplace. "Bye, Ginny, favorite sister of mine."

"Don't worry, you're in the top three," Ginny called as Fred disappeared into the flames.

"He is trying," said Hermione, absentmindedly stroking the sides of her belly.

"Yes, but I still can't believe what he's doing with the Order. He's made it into some sort of… circus. Or a cult, with him as the grand master. What did he want?"

Hermione paused. "Actually, it was for his Order to stick its fingers into this mission I'm going to tell you about."

"How did _he_ know?" Ginny demanded irritably. Before Jack or me, she thought.

"The Minister probably told him," said Hermione. "I had to get permission from Rufus, of course. That was two days ago, which means that Fred has tea regularly with the Minister, or that Rufus reports to Fred."

"Neither is good," muttered Ginny. She wondered, for the umpteenth time, why she felt such animosity towards Fred's Order. She and Hermione had had many talks about this before. It wasn't because the Order really interfered with the Aurors, because they didn't, even if they sometimes made assertions that made Ginny wonder what exactly Fred's stance with the Aurors was. Neither could it have been because Fred was perverting the Order name, because he wasn't. Even with all the stupid elaborations, like the initiations and degrees of craft, he was still maintaining the principles that Dumbledore had founded it upon, and had expanded it and increased its fame. All that was missing was a Voldemort.

"He hasn't given you any trouble, has he?"

"You mean, with us Aurors? No. I don't know. And I know Fred's not going to do something terrible, like… try to be a second Voldemort. But it grates me somehow." Ginny shook her head. "He used to be so different, when George was still alive. Maybe—maybe that's why." She could feel the threat of tears at the back of her eyes, and saw Hermione's look of concern from the corner of her vision. She sniffed sharply. "Anyway. What's this mission you were going to tell me about?"

"Actually, someone else was going to tell you about it." She paused, then looked a bit sheepish. "I kicked him out when Fred came and went on about how he wanted to speak to me in secret. Silly, really, since Aaron—the guy—knows more about this secret than even I do."

Ginny straightened. "Is he thin, with glasses, looks a bit nervous? Wears a green button-down shirt?"

Hermione blinked. "Yes, did you see him on your way here?"

"Yeah, he's waiting in the break room."

"So that's where he went. I was afraid he'd wander off and get lost. You never know with magicists. Would you call him in, please?"

The man was in the same place as he had been when Ginny left the break room. She took a moment to observe him. Young, maybe a bit older than she. The shirt was fashionable, but made him look like he was conscious of it. His gaze flicked up for a moment but returned to the magazine.

Ginny cleared her throat. The man jerked; Ginny grinned. She liked scaring men. "Aaron?"

He nodded quickly.

"Dr. Granger wants to see you."

He jumped to his feet. "So she's done with her meeting with the fellow from Hogwarts? I was wondering when they'd finish. You know," he went on thoughtfully before Ginny had a chance to answer, "you look a lot like him…"

"We're both redheads?" said Ginny. For such a quiet guy, he sure could talk fast, she thought. "He's my brother."

Aaron blanched, but Ginny couldn't be sure. She led him to Hermione's office and returned to her seat.

"Aaron? Sorry to just drop you like that. As it turns out, you would've been the best person for Professor Weasley to talk to. Ginny, this is Aaron Skonser. Aaron, this is Ginny Weasley."

Aaron blinked at Ginny through his glasses. "So the two of you _are_ siblings."

"Yes, didn't I say?" Ginny said, feeling a tad annoyed.

"Aaron," Hermione said in a way that reminded Ginny of McGonagall on a good day, "would you mind giving Ginny some background on the Borealis Expedition? She's going to be one of the Aurors accompanying you"

"Oh! Neato," he said, and grinned. This time Ginny was slightly taken aback. Aaron had a smile as bright as Lockhart's, but with none of the self-aggrandizement. And who says 'neato?' she thought. "Where should I start, Dr. Granger?"

"Probably with the trolleriometer."

The what? Ginny thought.

Aaron was at the back of the room, rummaging through a big paper bag. '_Ithaca's Grace_,' Ginny read across the front. '_Quality Books_.' "Here we are," said Aaron, pulling out a tripod in one hand and a large, bronze basin in the other. He set up the tripod and gently placed the basin on top of it.

"This is a trolleriometer," he announced.

"Oh," said Ginny. As if that explains anything, she thought, watching him take out a jug and a small circular object. She realized it was a spirit level when he emptied the jug in the basin, set the object on the ledge, and began adjusting the tripod.

"So… what does it do, this trolleriometer?"

Hermione stirred, but Aaron interrupted. "I'll explain further, but basically, it works like a Muggle compass, only it follows magical lines, not magnetic ones. Now. One more thing." He reached into the bag again and emerged with a small glass case. Opening it, he took out what looked like a thin needle the width of a hair. Carefully, he set it afloat in the basin. "There we go," he said. He turned and looked a bit nervous again. "Maybe you could come a bit closer and take a look?"

Ginny approached the basin and peered into it. The needle was floating in a pool of slightly amber liquid. Looks pretty, she thought absently. "Yeah. So?"

Aaron fidgeted. "Seeing as you work in Magical Law Enforcement, I'm sure you're familiar with magical detection tools, such as the skotadiometer, or the Curse-O-Meter?"

"Yeah, the Screamer."

Aaron smiled again, a quick blazing grin. "Oh, is that what you lot call it?"

"Take it with you down Knockturn Alley, and see if you can think of a better name."

"Oh, but can't you adjust the sensitivity?" Aaron said, frowning. "It's supposed to have a wide-ranged, continuous gradient—"

"We don't use it during the rounds so much as _post facto_," Ginny interrupted.

"Oh. I s'pose that makes sense." He turned his attention to the basin—or trolleriometer, Ginny thought—and continued. "Back when we were working on the skotadiometer, we were also working in parallel on a device that, instead of detecting the presence of dark magic, could direct you in the direction of it."

"Oh," said Ginny, thinking. "That would've been useful. Very useful, in fact."

"Yes," said Aaron, looking slightly embarrassed, "but we couldn't get it to work. Whenever we got it down to an acceptable sensitivity, the darn thing kept pointing north."

"North—like a Muggle compass?"

"Yeah, that's what Dr. Granger pointed out," Aaron said, darting a glance at Hermione. She had taken out a bag of raisins and was eating it together with a slab of Brie cheese. Ginny made a face, but Hermione smiled and patted her belly.

"But it didn't make sense, not a bit of it!" Aaron went on, looking more and more excited. "Could it be that there was a big clump of dark magic at the North Pole? So, well, anyway, one day I decided that it would be interesting to see how a similar apparatus would respond to magic besides dark magic."

"So Aaron very cleverly charmed the needle you see in the amber to respond to magic in general, not just dark magic," Hermione said. "It took him a year or two, but he succeeded very well."

Aaron turned brick red. "I just… observed a blueback beetle. They're sensitive to any sort of magic. Wasn't very hard. Anyway, after I did that, the results were the same—the trolleriometer pointed north. We thought, then, that it was probably the inherent magic of the earth doing things."

"That might've been the end of the story," said Hermione, who had moved onto pine nuts and peanut butter. "Fortunately, Aaron has a very keen sense of observation and a mind of logical inquiry."

"Well, if you think about it, it was the next step," Aaron protested. "The earth having some sort of innate magical field was a very plausible hypothesis. All you had to do to prove it was look at the magical dip."

"What's that?" Ginny interrupted.

"Oh, it's a borrowed term from Muggle science," said Aaron. "Basically, a magnetic compass points at an angle to the azimuth because the magnetic field of the earth isn't parallel to the earth's surface."

"What?" Ginny looked at Hermione for help.

"Wizards don't use magnets all that much, do they?" Hermione said. She pushed the peanut butter aside. "Have you seen this sort of diagram before?" She drew a circle in the corner of her parchment and took out her wand. "_Vividus_." Green and blue blossomed across the circle into an easily recognizable picture.

"That's earth," said Ginny.

"Yes. The reason why compasses point north is because there's a magnetic field through the earth itself." Hermione tapped the picture again, and lines sprouted from what Ginny recognized as the poles. They curved through space and met roughly at the plane of the equator. "These lines are magnetic fields. It's best if you consider the earth as an enormous magnet itself."

Ginny shook her head. "Looks like a Quidditch game play to me."

Aaron made a disbelieving sound, almost as though he were a bit offended. Ginny gave him a sharp glance. He shrank back. It was gratifying to receive such a response, Ginny thought with mild surprise and pleasure. She wondered if it was because she was an Auror, or if Fred was her brother. She hoped it was the former.

"In a nutshell, the compass—because it's also a magnet—follows these field lines. If you put two magnets together, they align in a specific way. This is the same principle, only, one of the magnets is the earth."

"And," Aaron added, when Hermione paused to let Ginny digest the information, "the reason for this is that the earth's outer core is made of liquid iron and experiences electric currents that fall into a pattern due to the Coriolis effect—"

"In a _nutshell_," Hermione cut in, "the earth is a big magnet."

"Right," said Ginny, before Aaron could open his mouth.

"But, the ends of the magnet, so to speak, aren't on the surface of the earth." Hermione tapped the picture again, and the greens and blues faded to translucency, like stained glass. The lines connecting the poles—magnetic fields, Ginny reminded herself—grew inwards until they nearly met at a point that Ginny guessed would be the center of the earth.

"As Aaron said, the part of the earth that actually creates these magnetic fields is in the middle of the earth, not the surface. That's why these lines are like this."

"Yes," Aaron said, looking eager to add more. He remained quiet, though, which Ginny felt grudgingly added points in his favor.

"With me so far, Ginny?"

"Think so," said Ginny.

"Right. So, as I might've mentioned earlier, magnets follow the strongest magnetic field lines around. That's why they always point north. However, if you put a magnet at the north magnetic pole, it would want to point _inside_ the earth."

"Because the lines go _into_ it," Ginny said, feeling understanding dawn with a flush of excitement.

"Yes," said Hermione, smiling. "Exactly. So if it could, the needle of the compass would point at an angle towards the pole that's inside the earth. That's called the magnetic dip."

"Right, I see," said Ginny. She waited for Hermione to go on, but Aaron jumped in instead.

"So basically, if the earth had an innate magical field analogous to the magnetic field, the trolleriometer would have a similar dip. Of course, it'd be different anyway because there isn't exactly a north and south pole with magic. Still, we'd expect the trolleriometer to have some sort of declination. But it doesn't. It points to the surface."

"Specifically," said Hermione, spreading peanut butter on a wheat cracker and sprinkling nuts on top, "it points to Svalbard. The surface of Svalbard."

Ginny frowned. "Svalbard?"

"An archipelago in the Arctic Ocean," Hermione explained. "It's under the Norwegian government."

"Wait," Ginny said, "so you're telling me that the trolleriometer, which is supposed to point at the biggest block of magic around, points to some island in the North Sea?"

"Actually, not the North Sea," said Aaron, "it's the Arctic Ocean, at the boundary of the Greenland, Barents and Norwegian Seas, but other than that—yes, precisely!" He was grinning madly. He's not bad looking in a cute, nerdy sort of way, Ginny noted after the brief moment of feeling disgusted.

"But why? And what kind of magic?"

"We know for certain magic in general and dark magic," Aaron replied.

"Ugh. So this Svalbard has so much dark magic on it that the trolleriometer ignores everything and points at it?"

Aaron paused. "Yeah. Basically."

"It isn't just dark magic," said Hermione. "Aaron charmed the trolleriometer to respond to magic in general, which includes three broad types: dark, light, and wild. Wild magic is generally much stronger than both dark and light magic, so it's reasonable to assume that wild magic is what the trolleriometer is responding to."

Ginny peered into the basin again. The needle shimmered alone in a lake of gold. One end, she noticed, seemed to dip slightly, although she could not be certain. The fluid was completely clear, and she could see nothing, not even a mote of dust, touching the surface. It reminded her, abruptly and surprising even herself, of what she thought the bubble around an unborn infant must be like.

"Right. So what's the mission?"

"I'm sending three of my magicists to Svalbard investigate," said Hermione. "Aaron is one of them." Aaron nodded at Hermione's side, the nervous look coming back. "They'll need Ministry escorts."

Ginny nodded, understanding. "Me." Hermione dipped her head. Ginny smiled. "Anyone else? Besides Cormac, that is."

"Just you two. Honestly, I don't think you'll meet much trouble on this trip, although whatever it is at Svalbard does sound intimidating. It's probably a tremendous reservoir of magical energy, like the auroras, although I'm surprised there hasn't been record of it in the past."

"The Tethyan Trench wasn't noticed until the late nineteen hundreds," Aaron put in, "even though it was a major outlet of telluric currents."

"That's because nobody could find the opening for centuries," Hermione replied in a somewhat long-suffering voice. She and Ginny exchanged a glance, and Ginny rolled her eyes with a smile. "That's all, I think," said Hermione. She hoisted herself out of her chair. "I'll finalize things with Rufus, and I'll ask Jack Demme if I could borrow you and Cormac."

They left the office, and Hermione followed them to the break room, where she poured herself some water. No hybrid substances during pregnancy, Ginny remembered. She settled into one of the comfortable chairs that reminded her vaguely of Gryffindor, if only they were red instead of green. The evening's light fell through the window and across the coffee table. Ginny wondered when the Ministry would put up a curtain; without it, the whole place had a feeling of being unfinished, despite most of the work having been completed two years ago. It had been a necessary relocation, after Voldemort blew up the original Auror headquarters.

"Oh—Hermione, you won't believe who I saw today," she said.

Hermione reached into her robe pocket and took out a Muggle sweet wrapped in some shiny material. "Who?"

"Professor Snape!"

Hermione stopped with a chocolate bar inches from her mouth. "_Severus_? Really! Where?"

"Um, outside of a… den."

"A _den_? You mean—where people do crackle and pot?"

"Yeah, but he told me he wasn't doing crackle."

Hermione shook her head. "There, of all places." She had a worried look on her face. "Did he look like he'd been using pot?"

"He looked older," Ginny said, a bit hesitantly.

Hermione was now chewing her lower lip, her gaze clouded with thought. "I haven't visited him in forever, not since we both left Hogwarts… I did visit him once in his actual home—this depressing place called Spinner's End—but that was—goodness, that was two years ago!" A look of stricken guilt had worked its way across Hermione's face.

"I'm sure Professor Snape can take care of himself," Ginny said, genuinely surprised by how worried Hermione seemed. "I mean, he always seemed to like being left alone…"

Hermione shook her head and fell silent. "Roger's probably home now," she said, changing the subject completely. "He's probably waiting in front of the fireplace, in case I fall down after I Floo. Honestly, I told him that the Maternity Wards wouldn't let anything like that happen, but no, he insists on waiting." She grinned, but Ginny could only half return it. She felt intensely curious about her old professor now, but it was not something she could bring upIn the last days of the War, Hermione had entered that isolated echelon of older Order members, and now, even after they'd become fast friends, Ginny could feel its remnants.

"I've paperwork from a crackle arrest to finish," Ginny said, standing up. "I wish Cormac would do some more of that. He seems to think it's a secretary's job, and therefore, Ginny's job."

Hermione's lips twitched, but her eyes were hard. "Do you want me to talk to Jack?"

"No," Ginny said hurriedly. "I'll just talk to Francine."

Hermione laughed. "Very good. I'll see you later then. Oh, and read up on Svalbard if you have time. It's fascinating—apparently, all the Muggles bear firearms, to ward off the bugbears, which were enchanted in the seventeen hundreds to look like polar bears."

"Sounds fun," Ginny said dryly. Hermione had pushed herself out of her chair and was now ambling down the dark hallway to her office. Ginny sat alone for a while, thinking of everything and nothing in particular, mostly debating whether she should have another cup of pepper-up coffee, before she heaved herself onto her feet, ready to return to the reliable chore of paperwork.


	2. In the Company of Strangers

_A/N: There is strong language in this chapter. Please heed the rating. Again, many thanks to Procyon Black for the beta, whose keen sense of Mugglisms is indispensible._

* * *

**Chapter 2: In the Company of Strangers**

He watched the too-large hands sprinkle a pinch of green crumbles on the sheet of paper. Then the edge of a nail, scraping the dried fragments into what was roughly a line. From a pocket in the robe, the hands retrieved a small white tube—the mouthpiece. With surprising agility, the blunt hands rolled the paper into a narrow joint.

"Thar," the man muttered.

He offered it. Slender fingers, stained at the edges but moving with the delicate surety of a surgeon, or a potions master, received it.

"How much?"

"Fifteen galleons."

Lips curled in distaste.

"I'm makin' special discount fer ye," the man growled, "on accoun' yer connections to the org'nization."

"Connections? I'm afraid I do not understand you."

The man grunted and leaned forward, the red light gouging his face with shadows and pits. The scent of stale drink and substances wafted from the oily collar of his robe, mixing with the thudding music.

"Yer playin' dumb on me. You know what I'm a-talkin' fer. Them wi' thar powder and ways."

"Then let me make it clear to you: I neither possess nor desire to possess the ties you accuse me of."

"Well, I see yer dealin' with 'em anyway."

"Those, I assure you, are strictly on a professional basis. And no, I do not indulge in this latest mind-addling, soul-rotting craze."

"Righ'."

The coins exchanged hands.

"Thank ye, Mister Paresun Vesse. Ye have a good nigh'."

Severus Snape smiled thinly and, holding the joint between his thumb and forefinger, tapped the end with his wand. The twisted paper glowed. With delicate care, he put the mouthpiece to his lips and drew in a slow, even breath. A buzz started from his head and lapped down to his feet. He sighed.

He studied his surroundings with leisurely contempt. It was typical of a den—the nightmarish cross between a Muggle nightclub and an aristocratic opium lair. He was very glad he was not the only one refraining from squirming like lust-stricken beasts against each other or, worse, on the floor. There were quite a few others, he noted, some much older than he. Most were bent in various angular forms over the overstuffed poufs, a lone stream of smoke curling from their mouths. Some, though, were eying the uncovered bodies with a disturbing gleam in their eyes.

Snape took another draw at the joint before self-loathing could overtake him. He had come for business and for pleasure, not for a sunny trip down memory lane. That he could do on his own in the mustiness of Spinner's End.

The note he'd received that morning had told him to wait at the back of Hell's Chateau. The time had been listed as night, which, Snape thought with a snort of derision, was a highly relative term. Nine? Twelve? Three? Was it even limited to five in the morning and the break of dawn? Not that he was anxious to return to his own particular dump. His life, whether day or not, at home or in the streets, was a cesspool of ennui and false memory—constant, predictable, and dreary.

He took another breath. At least, he thought, the message could have provided some description of the agent. Anyone with even a modicum of intelligence would have done that. Merlin—loathe as he was to admit it, even Longbottom would have done so.

He had come to realize that dealing with these idiots was no better than suffering the stupidity of Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs. Not that he'd expected much different when leaving Hogwarts. He had predicted nights of drugged numbness, days of acrid memory, twilights of muted self-hatred—and that was what he had gotten. Part of the reason, as he told himself when the sun was too strong for the haze to creep around his awareness, was that everyone who might have written him a suitable recommendation was dead. Or crazy. Dumbledore, McGonagall. Voldemort. Granger had offered, after he had brought up the issue as an excuse during one of her unwanted visits, but he had quickly disabused her of that notion. He might have very little left, but he still had pride.

But in times like this, when the dreamy tingle of the drug was eroding his self-delusions, he realized that it was because he did not want to live anymore. At least, not a life of sunlight, which Granger and Weasley so eagerly embraced. No—he wanted night. Dark night, dim night, a choking curtain to grind him slowly, hour by hour, until he was a shadow, waiting complacently (like Albus) for the end. He twisted the ring on his finger. Yes. That was what he wanted—his greatest fear, his surest longing…

There was a stir in the crowd. Snape looked up irritably, annoyed at whatever had interrupted his reverie of self-pity. A bunch of people had gathered in the middle of the room around a table, on which someone was standing. A boy. Barely a youth, with half-lidded eyes and a hapless smile.

Snape swore under his breath. Wasn't there an age limit to this place? He could feel the memory of hands and a self-satisfied voice circling the edges of his mind. There had to be, but of course, it was probably enforced the same way that Dumbledore handled Gryffindors.

The boy had lifted a hand to his bare chest, and another hand holding a funny black pestle-shaped object to his lips. His gaze, half-lidded as though confiding a secret, wandered across the crowd. They seemed to settle on one person in particular, and he began to sing in a low, husky voice.

_Give me a map  
Marked with an 'X'  
That'll lead me to your heart_…

(Snape had the urge to clap his hands over his ears. Was it not enough that he could barely have peace with all these flesh-crazed teenagers tangled at his feet? Now he had to deal with enough sentimentality to burn a hole through a cauldron.)

_I'll pave out the way  
With cloth spun from air  
And woven with my dreams_…

(He understood the purpose of the pestle-shaped thing now. The way the boy was crooning into it, caressing it with his fingers in the meantime, was positively obscene.)

_All that I ask_  
'_cause that's all I have  
Is that you please tread softly_…

Snape's hands clutched, convulsed, and the joint snapped out of its mouthpiece and fell to the floor. He snatched it up, feeling countless eyes staring, and stuck it back into place, then tried to take a shaky breath. He swallowed thickly. It was close—too close.

The boy was still singing. Snape could see from the corner of his eye that his hand was now resting on the rim of those inadequate trousers.

_Tread softly_, he was whispering, _because you tread on my dreams_. _Tread softly_…

Snape flicked the joint into the fireplace. He'd had enough. Another moment of this and he'd hex someone—badly. He stood and stared over the crowd. For a moment he considered the front exit, but the vial of Tranquility Potion pressed hard against his ribs. He snapped around, feeling his robes lift behind him like a bat's swings, and stalked further into the back of the den. There was a door; he snarled at the cluster of boys around it, and flung himself out into the night.

A cool breeze darted over his nose and brow. He was in an alley of sorts, alone except for a streetlight that flickered at the edge of the main avenue. Further down, he could see shadows walking; in the other direction, he could make out the outline of a hulking shape; above it, an unlit window.

He sighed. Now he was regretting having wasted the joint. It was expensive, too. Of course, if the transaction of the Tranquility Potion went through with the enigmatic Monsieur Néant's missing agent, he would be more than compensated. Perhaps he would wait here, in what was undeniably the back of Hell's Chateau. But what he wanted was another joint.

He shook his head. Damn his sense of self-preservation. He knew too well what each heavenly breath did to his brain and his magic. When the mood was gone, the ramifications were difficult to ignore. Damn that idiot boy—damn the Hell's Chateau, damn everything. He made his way deeper into the darkness, next to the vague shape (it turned out to be a stack of Muggle furniture). Here, he could only barely make out the thunderous beat of music, registering in his ears like the sprinkling of hellebore in the essence of murtlap. The air curled against his damp skin.

It felt good to be alone. He twisted the ring around his finger for the second time that night, and stared up into the sky. There were no stars visible. Either it was cloudy, or the glare of Muggle streetlights had veiled everything. Words, lines, rose unbidden to his mind:

_The blue and the dim and the dark cloth,  
Of night and light and the half-light_…

He sighed. He really should not have wasted that joint.

The door opened, and shapes emerged, figures; Snape instinctively pressed himself deeper into the shadows. He could not see their faces, but one was slim, pale-limbed, a boy, and the other was bigger, heavier around the stomach: an older man.

"Ah, so you wan' a private place to do it, eh?"

"I told you already, let me alone, will you?"

Snape straightened. He could see the boy trying to pull away, but the bigger man seemed to have an iron grasp on his wrist.

"C'mon, you've been teasing me all night," the older man slurred. His voice had both the disjointedness of alcohol and the giddiness of another drug—mort, perhaps, which was Muggle cannabis altered with that evanescent hint of a memory charm.

"You're a nice guy, but I'm warning you…"

"But you were lookin' at me all night! C'mon boy, don't be a fool." The man'svoice was now a growl. "I know you want it. Stop—fightin'—"

The boy's voice had been spiraling upwards steadily, and was now high and tense. "I mean it now!"

The man gave a vicious tug. The boy jerked forward like a puppet on a string, but in the next moment he was lashing out ferociously with his legs and fists. The man shrunk back with grunting noises. Snape stepped forward and raised his wand.

"_Stupefy_."

The drunken man lurched forward and, with a low moan, slumped to the ground like a wounded beast. The boy jumped back and lifted his head to stare into the shadows. The streetlight behind him caught the edge of his face and neck, tracing the outline of his bare arms and shoulders.

"Who's there?" the boy demanded. "I can see you!"

Snape felt a smirk tugging his face. The boy was trembling. He crossed his arms and stepped forward.

The boy stumbled backwards another step. "You're… are you a vampire?"

"Vampires are unable to perform magic with a wand," Snape lectured, slipping into his classroom voice before he noticed himself doing so. He had the impulse to add that even a first year in Gryffindor would know that, but refrained.

"Oh," said the boy. His voice was oddly familiar, Snape thought. "Then why'd you help me?"

"'Help you' is an overstatement. I was merely unwilling to have an act of nonconsensual sexual violence occur in front of my eyes."

The boy spent a moment hesitating before deciding that whatever Snape had said was insulting, and commenced glowering. "I din' need your help," he snapped and whipped something out of his back pocket. Snape started, his eyes on the boy's face. In the shadows he had not recognized him, but he saw now, clearly, that the boy was the singer he'd seen inside the den.

"I have this," the boy was saying. "I din' need your help. I have _this_."

Snape jerked his attention to the gleaming switchblade in the boy's hand. He snorted. "Put that away, boy, before you cut yourself. Tell me, how old are you?"

"Why do you care?"

"Answer me!"

The boy stared back, eyes calculating. "I'm eighteen."

"You're lying."

"Fine… Seventeen."

He did not even need Legilimency. "Still lying, boy."

"Don't call me boy!"

Snape bit back the urge to—what? Take points off? Hex the boy into oblivion? This was a street urchin, a dancer in a drug-ridden den, perhaps also a callboy, not one of the endlessly disobedient brats he could silence with a detention. But the resentful glower—perhaps a bit more sly, a hint less controlled—brought out the same, ingrained instincts. Damn it, Snape thought. Why did he have to waste that joint? What was he now—a fallen Socrates, a Pythagoras in the lair of heathens? He had no right to think himself better than any of the others who were rotting their brains in the smoke and sweat of Hell's Chateau; he was the same.

He strode forth and glared. The boy glared back.

"You're fifteen," said Snape with a satisfied smirk.

The boy faltered. "How did you know?"

"There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy."

The boy shook his head like a dog drying itself. "_What_?" He had a frustrated look on his face. "I dun' understand a word you're saying."

"Where did you get that song you were singing inside the den?"

"The song? You mean, 'My Dreams and the Stars, O Love, I Lay in Your H—'"

"Yes! That—whatever the title is," Snape snarled. It amazed him how nauseatingly saccharine some of these so-called singers could be.

"It's a big song right now," said the boy, looking at him curiously. "D'you like it?"

"No," Snape almost shouted. "I—no, I don't."

There was an awkward silence after that. They turned to watch a gaggle of teenagers stagger past, obviously drunk, along the main street.One of them pointed down the dark alley, but the others pulled him away, and Snape listened to their voices fade like echoes of a pebble splashing in a well.

"So what are you doing here?" the boy asked.

"Waiting."

"Waiting for what?"

Snape curled his lips. The boy was displaying every blasted sign of that typical adolescent disrespect, but he reminded himself that this was not Hogwarts. "The completion of a business deal."

"Business deal? What kind of business deal?"

"It is none of your concern," Snape said coolly.

The boy crossed his arms. "I'm here for a business deal, too."

So he is a callboy, Snape thought. "Indeed."

"I'm waiting for a guy with a potion. If he doesn't show up soon I'm going back and calling it a no-show."

Snape started. "You—are you the agent of Monsieur Néant?"

The boy blinked, and Snape watched realization click in place. "Are you Paresun Vas?"

"Vesse," Snape corrected with a hiss. "Yes, I am."

"Oh," said the boy. He ran a hand through his hair. "Fuck..." Snape twitched. "Guess you have a potion for me then?"

"Yes, I do," Snape said dryly. He stepped forward and held the boy's gaze for a moment. A quick probe brought up an image of the red den, a white and green mansion, the roar of a close fire; Snape did not recognize the last two, but the sense he received was of restrained mistrust and curiosity. Typical boy, he thought. No traps there.

The boy clapped a hand over his eyes. "What'd you do?"

Snape frowned. "Nothing." He had not expected his Legilimency to be detected, but perhaps he had probed too deeply and a moment too long. "Here is the potion," he said, drawing out a vial from his robe.

"C'mon, what'd you do?"

"You presented your thoughts to me. I merely perused them."

The boy's brows drew together sharply. He reached out and snatched the vial from Snape's hand.

"My payment?"

"Getting it," the boy muttered darkly. He gribbed the rim of his trousers and squirmed as he undid the top.

Snape nearly choked. "Just _what_ are you doing—"

The boy looked up in surprised, but then a rather knowing smile, the same look he had in his eyes as he sung before the crowd, crept over his face. "Just getting you your payment," he said lightly. He squirmed some more and pushed his hips forward.

"If you are having an epileptic seizure," said Snape in a frosty tone, "I will be more than happy to direct you to St. Mungo's."

The boy looked quizzically at Snape's face. "What's that? And I wouldn't take anything to go to that hell-hole again."

"St. Mungo's?" Snape echoed, surprised. And then—again? But that was probably to be expected, he thought. Who knew what kind of scrapes these hooligans got into, or what state they could end up in after selling their own bodies. A heaviness of thought and memory entered his mind. Wasn't that the story of his life? Selling his body to his fellow Slytherins for a mockery of comfort, and then to Voldemort for the memory of love and hate, and then to Dumbledore for services as a spy. Not that it mattered. All that they were marionetting was a corpse.

"Here," said the boy, holding out a crinkled slip of parchment. "A Gringotts bill."

Snape took it with the tips of his fingers and aimed his wand at it. "_Scourgify_."

"What'd you do to it?" the boy asked suspiciously.

"Cleaned it."

The disgruntled look came back to the boy's face. "So this is the potion."

"That is the potion."

The boy unscrewed the cap and sniffed it. Snape was about to warn him not to spill when the boy put the vial to his lips and tossed his head back.

Snape froze. "WHAT—"

The boy looked up with one raised eyebrow. "Just checking to see if it was poisoned."

"You fool! You idiot! You numb-skulled, dung-brained... Gryffindor!" The boy was now looking at him with a glazed expression, but, he realized with a sinking feeling, that was perhaps the effect of the potion. "I made the potion at a five-hundred concentrate, which means that you have now taken enough Tranquility Potion to knock unconscious the entire city of London!"

The boy was swaying slightly. "I was jus'... jus' seein' if it was poisoned..." He took one step forward, and collapsed. Snape lunged forward just in time to keep the boy's head from cracking against the ground.

"Idiot, idiot!" he muttered. He looked up and down the alley. It was dark and abandoned, save for the man, still unconscious, who had earlier tried to accost the boy. "Idiot," Snape hissed again. "Less brains than even Longbottom."

He could apparate to St. Mungo's, but he remembered the boy's reluctance to go there. He could believe it. The white, antisceptic interiors, and then the irritatingly cheerful child-welfare witches, who had the subtlety of a Gryffindor and stupidity of a Hufflepuff. He had hated it himself, and if he left the boy there -- damn it. He could not just drop the boy off like that. He would have to go back and check, and risk being identified and hailed or reviled, haunted by the possibility of meeting someone out of the past he was trying to forget.

The boy's head had fallen back, showing a neck as pale and delicate as the sculpture of a swan. His trousers, Snape noted with a touch of annoyance, were incompletely buttoned. The vial had fallen from his hand, but fortunately it was capped, and Snape had cast an Unbreakable Charm on it.

"You have forced me, boy, to take responsibility for the stupidity of teenagers once again," Snape muttered. He had an antidote in his cabinet, although he would have to spend an hour or two adjusting it to the Tranquility Potion. And he had been looking forward to a night of rotting his brain. There was no extra bed or bedroom at Spinner's End, although there was the counter on which he prepared his potions ingredients...

"I do not know who in this arrangement is more unlucky, you or me," said Snape. He slipped the Gringotts bill and Tranquility Potion into his robe, hoisted the boy into a sitting position, and Disapparated.

qp qp qp

Ginny hated admitting it to herself, but she was nervous. She hoisted her bags onto the moving belt thing and watched it disappear into a mysterious box. The Muggle policeman next to the square gray arch (why did Muggles make everything have right angles?) opened his mouth and said something; a second later, the Translation Spell kicked in.

"Come now here."

She obeyed and gingerly stepped through the arch, waiting for the lights to turn red and the piercing shriek to ring out, as they had when Cormac had gone through. The arch remained dull and quiet, much to her relief.

She collected her bags and dragged them to where Aaron was waiting.

"What's taking them so long?" she whispered, nodding in Cormac's direction.

"He left a few knuts in his pocket first," Aaron whispered back. "And then they found a galleon in his jacket. I think they're wondering why he's carrying so much gold around, if they cotton on that it is gold, which they probably won't, because all galleons have been enchanted to be half their weight."

Ginny nodded.

"And after this—?"

"Then we board the plane," Aaron said, and grinned as though excited by the prospect.

Ginny returned an uncertain smile at this. She switched her attention to the arch (security checkpoint, Aaron had said several times) where Su Li, one of the three magicists Hermione had sent, was collecting her bags. Behind her, the last of the magicists, Roberto Mitavelli, was waiting for the policeman to order him through. Their eyes met briefly, and Ginny forced a smile onto her face. Mitavelli's lips lifted coolly in response, and then he stepped through. The arch stayed silent.

"So glad I put the alethiometer in the suitcase at last moment," Su Li said to Aaron, relieved, as she glanced at Cormac.

Aaron chuckled. "I wouldn't fancy trying to explain _that_ to security."

Su Li leaned towards Ginny. "Last time, to Argentina, Aaron put a… a set of magical rings in his bag." She spoke slowly, as though to pronounce each syllable as clearly as possible. Ginny remembered Hermione saying that Su Li had only started learning English three years ago; it was impressive, Ginny thought. "The checkpoint went 'ding! ding!,' so loud!"

Aaron smiled sheepishly. "It was worse because I put them in a box that I'd sealed with a locking charm, and I couldn't just take out my wand and lift it right in front of them." He gave Ginny an almost hesitant glance.

"So what'd you do, then?" she prompted.

"We waited for a whole hour!" Su Li put in. "Then Dr. Granger opened the box with her wand when everybody was looking somewhere else."

"Good for Hermione," said Ginny. Su Li giggled, but frowned and looked inquiringly at Aaron.

"She means Dr. Granger," said Aaron.

"Ah!" Su Li whispered, clapping a hand over her mouth. "I thought… You told me Hermony!"

Aaron flushed, and gave Ginny another sidelong glance, and muttered something unintelligible.

The magicists were really having a good time, Ginny thought. She wished, briefly, that she could share Aaron and Su Li's joy. In fact, she had been looking forward to this ever since Hermione had told her about it. She'd read up about Svalbard in between the endless crackle reports; apparently, it had been largely abandoned by wizards and witches because of a strange magical interference that began about twenty five years ago, which was the reason why they had to Floo to Oslo, then Tromsø, and finally take a Muggle airplane to Svalbard. She'd shared this discovery excitedly with Hermione, and they'd speculated if maybe the trolleriometer was related to it. Her mother had fussed and clucked over endlessly, which was a good sign, and had prepared a thick suit made from pieces of winter clothes belonging to Ron and George.

It had all gone merrily until last night, when Hermione contacted her by Flooat one in the morning. What Hermione had said had disturbed her, and she had wanted to contact Cormac first thing in the morning, but it had been a Saturday, and Cormac's automatic Floo-reply had chirped in a cheery voice that he would be gone all day, shopping.

"He looks like he finished," Su Li whispered, pointing at Cormac, who was walking towards them with a large bag in tow and a harried look.

"All ready?" he said, as though he had been waiting for them all along.

Aaron jumped to his feet. "Gate 18, which is…" He looked up at the sign. "That way."

Su Li and Cormac began hauling their bags in the direction Aaron was pointing; Ginny could hear Cormac muttering about how Muggles got anywhere without lightening charms. Aaron hesitated, but followed the other two.

Only Mitavelli was left. "After you," Ginny said, her voice professionally cordial.

The man returned the smile. "Thank you, Auror Weasley."

They waited in the almost empty seating area. Cormac fidgeted; Ginny sat near the window and kept half an eye on the giant silver machines, another half on the three magicists. Su Li and Aaron were deep in conversation over a bunch of scrolls; Mitavelli sat somewhat apart, looking around with nothing in his hands.

Ginny shifted closer to Cormac. "Had a good time shopping?"

"Huh?" Cormac frowned. "Shopping?"

"Wasn't that what you were doing all today?"

It took a moment before his frown dissipated. "Oh, no, I wasn't… or I was, kind of." He shifted uncomfortably. "Francine took me out to buy winter things, but there wasn't anywhere. And then she went back, and I dropped by at a bar for a few moments. Could be the last time in a while that I have some good English ale." He attempted a grin.

"You're in luck," said Ginny. "I heard that Norwegians take to alcohol like Wronski to the broom."

"Oh," said Cormac, brightening noticeably. "That's encouraging, though I don't think I've seen very much of it around yet. All the blokes here seem kind of small. I'd always pictured Norwegians as being kind of… big and blonde, with horned metal helmets."

"And longboats?"

"Longboats? Oh, you mean those things that they sail around in while slaughtering Muggle monks left and right? Yeah, that's part of it too." He grinned and held up his fist. "Vee vill slaughter! Vee vill kill!"

Ginny giggled. When he tried, Cormac make her laugh just as much as the twins had back when George was still alive, and before Voldemort had poured what seemed like all his energies into exterminating the Weasley family.

Half an hour later, they were on the plane, and Ginny was sorely regretting having rejected the calm drops that Aaron had brought. Neither she nor Cormac took any; they were Aurors; they were used to being serene in all sorts of panic-inducing situations. Mitavelli had rejected them too. Su Li had taken one, telling them that she only took it because she liked how it tasted, not because anything too scary would happen.

Nothing too scary! Ginny thought now, incredulously. The floor was rumbling, a roar had filled her skull, and the thing they were in was hurtling forward faster and faster. Cormac's face was completely white. Ginny looked back almost desperately to where Aaron and Su Li were sitting. Su Li was looking out the window, but Aaron caught her gaze and grinned. Ginny tried to return it; somehow, she felt a bit more assured.

The plane gave a final lurch, and Ginny heard Cormac gasp beside her. "Holy _fuck_," he hissed.

Almost fearing to, Ginny looked out the window. The ground was falling away fast, as though she were on a flying carpet or a broomstick, but then they were rising up, up, much higher than any broomstick could go. She stared, fascinated, as the entire airport came to view and disappeared into a crowd of similar buildings. Slowly, the details collapsed into themselves, and the broad sweep of the ocean came into view.

"Holy fuck is right," Ginny whispered excitedly. "Cormac, these Muggles are brilliant!" She looked at the Auror; he seemed ready to vomit.

"Aaron," said Ginny, turning in her seat, "a calm drop, please?"

Cormac shook himself. "I'm fine," he said loudly in as bland a voice as he could muster. "I think he could do with one, though," he said, nodded slightly at Mitavelli. The Italian looked like an animated corpse.

"No, I'm fine," he bit out, a bit more coldly than warranted, Ginny thought. "Thank you."

Aaron looked a bit crestfallen. He sealed the bag of calm drops and made ready to put it away, but Ginny reached out a hand and tapped his shoulder. "Give me one, will you?" she said.

His face lit up. Ginny suppressed a smile. Really, he was rather cute when he smiled like that.

The calm drop tasted like a mixture of orange and peach. Even the flavor itself was relaxing. The ocean beneath rolled away like an endless, glittering cloth. Distances covered by Floo always went by discounted. But here, on a Muggle plane, the proof was below them that every moment was bringing them closer and closer to Svalbard. In a few hours they would be there, and then—?

Her mind went back to the conversation she'd had with Hermione.

"It's about the trip," Hermione had said right after Ginny had descended the stairs to the fireplace in bemusement. "Is anyone around?"

Ginny was about to shake her head, but she froze when Hermione brought her hand to her face, as though to push back her hair, and made the sign with her fingers, crossing the middle and index fingers. It was one of the signals the Order had developed, and it meant the same thing that Hermione had just said. But the usage of the sign, which Ginny had not seen in nearly five years, brought a sudden chill to her heart

"No, Mum's asleep," Ginny had replied, and answered as well with her hands, bringing pinkies to tough thumbs of both hands.

"Good. Aaron and Su Li are both going, I've cleared it with the Minister and half the Ministry."

"Yes," Ginny had said. Hermione had managed to acquire for Ginny the files on the two magicists, and from those Ginny had found that both were heavily rooted in the Muggle world. Aaron had a Muggle mother and a Muggle-born father; Su Li was Muggle-born and had not about magic until she was well into her teens. Both had received some degree of Muggle education.

"I just learned who the third is going to be," Hermione had continued.

"Who?"

"Some visiting scholar from the University of Florence. He's called Roberto Mitavelli." Hermione had paused. "Remember I told you about how I'd planned to send Jameson with you?"

Ginny had nodded. Hermione had given her his personal files as well; Hogwarts-educated, three years behind Ginny, Ravenclaw, Muggle father and witch mother.

"It turned out that his father is sick because he was hexed last week. A bit suspicious, don't you think?" Hermione's nostrils had flared. "I would've been fine with just Su Li and Aaron going, but the Minister _insisted_ that Roberto Mitavelli go as well. The reason? Because he just got a visit from Monsieur Néant, a Wizengamot member. Néant—'nonexistent,' in French."

"Sounds like another Malfoy," Ginny had said.

"Close, but wrong Slytherin. I compared Néant's political profile and connections with all the known Slytherin families. Néant has close ties with the Gringotts Board of Overseers and the Department of International Magical Cooperation—as dothe Malfoy and Black families—but Néant has particularly strong connections with the EthiopianMinistry of Magic and the South African diamond mining industry. Of all the pureblood Slytherin families I could find, only the Zabinis match that profile."

"So the Zabinis are behind this?" Ginny had said. She had thought back to Hogwarts, summoning up what she remembered of Blaise Zabini, who'd been in the year above her. Black, tall, with an almost effete way of sneering, always wore the best robes, but never truly involved with Voldemort.

"I also looked up this Mitavelli," Hermione had continued. "That was somewhat harder, I had to convince the Italian Ministry to look through its records, even though I wasn't part of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. He's got a pretty clean record, except for one—he was involved in a cocaine ring back in ninety-six. Never arrested or tried, but the Italian Aurors had his name down on their list."

Ginny had felt a bunch of disparate threads suddenly coming together. "Crackle! This Mitavelli—cocaine—it must be related to the crackle ring, and Zabini could be the backer, or head, or whatever. The White Knight."

"Yes," Hermione had said, rubbing her eyebrows and temples with the heels of her palm. "And now they want this thing of power from the north."

Ginny had frowned. "Why would they need a thing of power? Besides the fact that, well…" They're evil and want to take over the world, Ginny had thought.

"It takes a lot of power to make crackle from cocaine."

Ginny had nodded immediately. That was one of the reasons why all the Aurors were focusing on the crackle ring. Making crackle required a simple combination of a severe laughing hex called Rictusempra Extremis and a standard Stabilization Charm. Although transforming the cocaine into crackle required a great investment of magical energy, neither spell was difficult. Even a first year could conceivably produce them with the proper training. Apparently, with the proper combination of threats and punishment, even children of eight or nine could do it.

Ginny remembered they'd broken into the crackle farm located at the hazy no-man's land between Knockturn Alley and Muggle London. It was a dilapidated shack, wedged in an alley like a clutch of spider eggs. Inside, they had found seven children, ages nine to fourteen, who had been forced, day and night, to cast the required spells to transform cocaine to crackle. All of them were suffering from magical exhaustion, with two on the verge of slipping into a coma. They were also all addicted to crackle.

"So they want to replace the children with whatever this thing is," Ginny had said. In a way, it had also seemed like a good idea.

"Ginny, whatever this thing is, it's theoretically the most powerful magical incident ever recorded," Hermione had said. She had looked grim and tired, reminding Ginny for a brief, panicky moment of Albus Dumbledore. "It's at least five hundred times stronger than Hogwarts. Even if you put Stonehenge, the pyramids, Potala Palace, Machu Picchu altogether, you'd barely get a tenth way there."

"Yeah," Ginny had said. Hermione had fallen silent. Five hundred times stronger than Hogwarts, Ginny had echoed in her mind. It was impossible to truly comprehend. What could it be, this thing? Some hole in the ground that opened to the bowels of the earth? A fluke?

And now, they were flying towards it, mile by mile over the wrinkled sea.

Cormac prodded her shoulder. He had looked through all the magazines in the flap on the back of the seat, and had already dismantled the motion sickness bag. "Knut for your thoughts?" he muttered.

She shook herself. "Nothing really. Just…" She looked down into her lap and, feeling almost reluctant, made the sign that all Aurors knew, the signal that meant there were people around who should not hear. "Wondering how long before we get there, that's all."

Cormac nodded. He turned his hand in the gesture of having received the message. Then he stretched and yawned as though they were in the Auror office break room on a normal weekday afternoon. "Silly Muggle chairs," he muttered. "There's no place to put your legs. Just think, we'll be the only magic folk on that island. Just us. Weird, isn't it?"

"Yeah," Ginny said grimly. "Just us."

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_A/N: Please, drop me a review to let me know what you think! Even a short one is welcome._


	3. Seeking

_A/N: Many thanks to Procyon for the beta, particularly with the Muggle snacks and Magical curses._

_A/N 2: I will go back at some point to straighten inconsistencies from Tread Softly; most likely I'll change TS instead of AoT, because whatever I'm working on at the moment is my canon. Also, several reviewers have asked about the song in chapter two. I'm glad people like it. I made it up based on a piece I heard before, whose composer and title I've forgotten, and of course Yeats's poem._

* * *

**Chapter 3: Seeking**

Snape stepped into the potions room and paused. He savored the comfortably cool air, the familiar dankness that settled around him like a well-known quilt. There was no light in the room, except for what came from the doorway behind him. Shadows flung themselves over the neat stack of cauldron, the cluttered but impeccably ordered cabinets, the old stone floor. He shut the door and waved his wand; a torch sputtered to life.

Belladonna and asphodel… Then perhaps a pinch of moonstone powder. The base had been established, and all he needed to do was modify it. Some murtlap essence? No, that would react unfavorably with the knotgrass…

The boy was in the other room, lying on a bed transfigured from the chair that Snape usually sat in to stare into the fire and lose himself to unhappy memories. McGonagall would have been displeased at how much trouble Snape went through to complete such a simple transformation. The pillows refused to be any fluffier than a folded towel, and the sheets stayed a faded gray, the same color as the bed Snape had slept in for the first sixteen years of his life. He wondered if it was some odd sort of revenge his mother was trying to play from hell.

He felt an odd tickling at the back of his mind. His hands slowed, and he frowned. That was the sign that his wards were opening to let in a guest. There was only a very small handful of people to whom he had given that permission, and half were dead or raving in St. Mungo's or utterly gone…

"Severus? Are you there?"

He should have known. There was only one person who would visit him.

He set down the moonstone he was powdering, cast a Stasis Charm over his work, and walked swiftly to the living room. Now that the chair had changed into a bed, the fireplace was half obscured, but he could still see Granger's busy hair.

"Dr. Granger," he said coolly. "To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?"

Granger smiled. She had not forgotten his methods of discourse, apparently. "Good to see you too, Professor."

"I am no longer one."

"You know what they say…"

"Please do not utter that abominable platitude," Snape interrupted. "And it is hardly 'they,' who say it. I believe it was the Headmaster who invented it."

"That'd be enough for most of the Wizarding world."

"The idiocy of the rest of the Wizarding world is not my concern." He crossed his arms and felt the mantle of the classroom hovering at his shoulders. It was sometimes surprisingly easy to fall into old ways, habits that he thought he loathed. He thought he should be irked by how pleased he was with Granger's visit. "Well?"

"May I cast a few Maternity Charms on your Floo, Professor?"

Snape frowned, and then his eyebrows rose slightly. "When… are you expecting?"

"A week or two." Granger smiled. The differences, unobtrusive and obscured by the flicker of flames, seemed so obvious now: a fuller face, the more rounded shoulders.

"Are you certain, Granger? Floo travel can be dangerous during pregnancy."

"It's only actually a big risk in the second trimester," Granger corrected. Snape bristled, but the reaction died down when Granger pushed her hair behind her ear and frowned. It was a gesture he had seen her do for a decade, but it had matured now and become something apart from the know-it-all girl he remembered. He wondered in what other ways he had fallen behind these last several years as the world spiraled past.

"Very well," said Snape. "You may."

A few moments later, Granger stepped through the fireplace, preceded by her protruding belly. She stopped short at the boy sleeping on the gray cot.

"I met him purely by accident in London," said Snape, annoyed that he had not thought to move the boy to another room. "He was being attacked, so I saved him. Then he overdosed on a Tranquility Potion." It was not the whole truth, but it was also not a lie. "I already fed him the base antidote to keep him in a stable condition; I was about the brew the remaining treatment when you called."

"I see."

"Good," Snape said, a sudden bite of hostility in his voice. Of course. An unknown, half-naked boy, unconscious on a cot in the lair of Severus Snape, ex-Death Eater and ex-bastard schoolteacher. Still a bastard, though. He was a fool not to have thought of the repercussions earlier.

Granger frowned. "Severus…" She moved to the cot and peered at the boy's face. "What's his name?"

"I don't know."

Granger looked up, surprised.

"You don't know?"

"Apparently, motherhood has degraded your sense of hearing," he bit out. He had the urge to stalk somewhere. "Tea?"

Granger nodded, a somewhat bewildered look in her face.

The kettle jerked when he jabbed his wand at it, and the box of tea shrank back when he slammed open the cabinet. He paused for a moment, collecting himself. Damn it all, what was wrong with him? He knew, though—it was the same awkward terror that had condemned him to seven years of misery at Hogwarts, that had made him such easy prey to both Malfoy and Potter's gangs. What few overtures of friendship he received, he had frightened away with a coldness that only masked his own fear. Potter was right—he was a coward. A slinking, Slytherin coward.

No, he thought as he clenched his fists. The person out there was Granger, who, as much as he hated to admit, had in her own right the forgiveness of Dumbledore and the forthrightness of McGonagall. And (it was helpful to remember), she used to be a bushy-haired, buck-toothed girl who resembled a vapid beaver.

He stood still, taking stock of himself. The rage had disappeared, and he felt a gaping emptiness replace it. He shut his eyes at the suddenness of it. Even after all these years, that damn feeling could come like lightning out of the sky.

Unclenching his fists, he made sure the kettle was on its way to boiling, and swept out of the kitchen.

Granger was still standing, which, Snape realized belatedly, was probably because there were no chairs in the room. There was one in the dining room, he remembered. He flicked his wand and summoned it.

"The kettle's boiling," he said.

Granger sat down with a grateful smile. Her face turned apologetic in the next moment. "Severus, I'm sorry—I realize now I must've sounded terribly accusing." She laughed, almost nervously. "Of course I wouldn't think that you were—er—intending child molestation."

Snape grunted. Idiot Gryffindors. As blunt as a worn pestle. And as blockheaded, most of them.

"You weren't, were you?"

Snape snapped around. Granger's gaze was defiant, but he could see stubborn concern as well. "Severus, I need to make sure."

He let out a shuddering breath. "I can assure you, Dr. Granger, that I am not quite the monster you accuse me of being." He paused. "If that will not satisfy you, I can swear it, by the Order."

"No, I trust you, Severus," Granger said, her voice softer. "Although, the Order isn't what it used to be." She looked grim and a little forlorn.

Snape frowned. "I'm afraid I don't follow."

Granger hesitated. "So you don't know?"

"No, I don't."

"Goodness. I mean…" He cut off her apologetics with a wave of his hand. "Well. I suppose it started even before we left Hogwarts. From faculty, I mean. Actually, now that I think of it, it probably began right after Voldemort died and Harry disappeared."

"Yes?" Snape said stonily.

"Fred Weasley decided that it would be a good idea to keep the Order of the Phoenixactive even in times of peace. In fact, he thought it would be good to expand it during times of peace as a sort of… vigilante group. I don't think he actually began until he became Headmaster, but soon afterwards, he started to recruit friends and students. According to Ginny, he's made himself the head, with various levels of command, so to speak, underneath him."

"Indeed." Snape sneered, but inwardly he felt a wave of shock. Fred Weasley had basically performed a bloodless coup d'état—and he had not even known. The notion weighed heavier in his mind than he'd have thought possible.

The kettle began whistling.

"Black or green?" he called from the kitchen. "Or Iron Bodhisattva?"

"Goodness, Severus, you have such interesting teas. I'll have the Iron Bodhisattva."

"Fancy name for half fermented," he said, setting the cup before her. A movement caught his eye; the boy had stirred. It had been only a slight movement—the arm had dropped slightly—and nothing more came.

Granger blew over the surface of the brew. "Ginny told me she met you in a den in London. I think it was called Hell's Chateau?"

"Indeed."

"I hope you weren't—doing anything you shouldn't," Granger said sharply. "Ginny said you weren't, but…"

Snape lifted an eyebrow.

Granger set down her teacup, and Snape braced himself. "Severus, you know how detrimental crackle is to your magic and your body! It literally loosens your magical core from your body. And your brain—it becomes mush!"

"Careful, Granger. Don't upset yourself too much. You're responsible for another."

"I know, Professor," she bit out, teacup balanced precariously on one knee.

"Once again, you marvel me with your stellar opinion of my conduct," he said, tone bordering on menacing. "I know precisely what crackle does to a wizard or witch, both magically and physically, and I have never taken any of that noxious junk." He paused. "I have, though, indulged in a few old classics."

"Classics?"

"Cannabis," Snape said, intentionally injecting a hint of wistfulness in his voice. He smirked at the expression on Granger's face. "More accurately, mort. Cannabis laced with a memory charm. I'm surprised your year did not use it as much. But you did have other pleasures, I suppose. Serving the Dark Lord, hunting Death Eaters." He waved a hand negligently.

"That can't be very good for your body either," Granger said, frowning.

"No, but it exceeds the alternatives," Snape replied coldly. She would think of crackle, he thought. Let her. His mind went to the months, those long, terrible months—Merlin, was it twenty four, twenty five years now?—when he was suddenly and utterly alone. Sometimes, it was necessary to forget. As professor, work had been a distraction. Work—and the lingering, half-dreamed promise of a return at the end of it all. Now that the promise had been waived, and he had survived when he thought (wished?) he had not, there was nothing left but to cake his mouth with the ashes of time.

Granger had turned to the boy. "What antidote are you giving him?"

Snape roused himself.

"The base of mirabelle," he said, "with some adder's scales and willow bark. It's the general antidote for comatose patients. I believe it was part of your sixth year N.E.W.T.s preparation."

"How on earth did he overdose on a Tranquility Potion?"

Snape's lips curled. "He was serving as an agent for a Monsieur Néant, and decided to prove his loyalty by trying the potion for poison." He paused. "That name strike a bell, Granger?"

"Néant, did you say? Monsieur Néant?"

"Yes, Néant," Snape repeated in a tone dry enough to parch a river.

Granger shook her head, as though in disbelief. "I haven't seen you in four years, and again you're in the thick of the worst…"

"What do you mean?" Snape said sharply.

"Monsieur Néant is behind many machinations that, shall we say, are highly reminiscent of Lucius Malfoy in his prime."

"I must say I'm unsurprised. If this Néant has to conduct perfectly legal potions purchases through a fifteen-year-old agent in a den, I can hardly expect him to be a righteous Gryffindor."

"Severus—you met him in a _den_?"

Snape clenched his teeth to bite back a wince. "Yes, Granger, I _rescued_ him at a den."

"But…" The frown on her face dissipated into a persistent furrow on her brow. "I suppose they don't really enforce the age limits. They don't in the Muggle world, either." She reached into her robe and took out a small paper bag. "It's just hard to believe… They're so young, and so vulnerable. They're just the targets that the crackle farmers are looking for."

"Indeed." Snape had read, for it was difficult to avoid news this big, about the breakup of the crackle farm in London. He remembered the Prophet's front page photograph, a picture taken as the children were being liberated. There was no distinguishing them from withered old men with softened skin and blackened hair. Their eyes held a haunted look that Snape could only recall seeing in Azkaban prisoners. He tried to picture, as one of those ghosts, this unconscious boy—dirty, undernourished, but still just fifteen and terribly naïve, reminding him (sentimentally, perhaps) of a pale shoot, or a young flame.

Damn it all, he thought. When did he start caring for other people again?

Granger broke into his thoughts. "It's a real possibility, Severus," she said slowly. "Monsieur Néant has two other identities. One, I think we're all rather familiar with: Blaise Zabini."

Snape drew in a sharp breath. "Zabini? That boy?" He remembered dark skin, upturned eyes, and an utter disdain for anything that necessitated cleaning his hands afterwards.

"Yes, although now his other alias, that of the White Knight, is a little better known."

"What? Impossible," Snape hissed. "Him? My student? The White Knight? The loutish head of an idiotic crackle cartel?"

"It's far from just idiotic, Severus. It's downright terrible. Nearly half of all crackle users experience significant drains in their magical reserves within the first year. Since most people don't use their full reserves, they don't notice it. But with their magic so disturbed, it's only a matter of time before the core completely dislodges, and they become Squibs. That," she went on before Snape could put a word in, "doesn't even consider the impact of crackle farms. It's not only children on the streets who are kidnapped. Crackle agents have raided orphanages, Quidditch games, plucked kids off the pavement as they visit a friend—"

She stopped. Snape sat still, watching her. She had worked herself to the brink of losing her composure—but she had caught herself, seated with one hand clutched protectively, perhaps unconsciously, over her belly.

"It's a mess," she said at last. She opened the paper bag, reached in, and took out some small, dark objects, which she began feeding herself with. "Not as big a mess as Voldemort, of course, but still a mess."

Snape hesitated. "Miss Granger, dare I ask what you're eating?"

Granger's hand paused halfway to her mouth. "Weetabix Mini Crunches. It's a Muggle snack.I haven't eaten lunch yet, and it's Mrs. Granger-Pickering, if you please."

"I should think those… things hardly qualify as a proper lunch, Granger."

She smiled. "I know. And I'm touched by your concern, Professor." She lifted the teacup from her knee, and Snape quickly took it from her. "I have to go now, I'm afraid. My desk gathers paperwork especially when I'm not looking."

"I hope I need not remind you of the fundamental task of feeding that infant?"

Granger's face was almost glowing. Snape frowned, completely thrown off by the behavior of pregnant women. "Little Harry would be pleased to know that Professor Snape was worrying about his having had lunch."

"You're naming it Harry."

The smile on Granger's lips settled into something more cautious. "Yes. It was that, or Albus, but since Albus is still alive…" She paused, and Snape felt that something in the room would shatter at any moment. "Oh no, I didn't mean it like that! I'm sorry, Severus, I—"

"You needn't apologize," he said coldly, turning around so he would not see her and hate her, or that she should see the pain on his face. "It is my fault for not preparing myself adequately for Gryffindor idiocy."

"I'm so sorry, Severus," said Granger, sounding truly wretched. "And here I was, thinking…" She laughed, a hollow sound. "Here I was, wondering how to ask you to be his godfather."

Something reached into his chest and gave a brutal twist. "Me—his—_godfather_? Preposterous!" He crossed his arms and glowered to hide the fact that he had, to his acute embarrassment, sputtered, and that his heart was humming like a Pepper-Up Potion gone wrong. "Do you need your head checked, Granger? Please, go to St. Mungo's at once."

The girl was grinning like McGonagall as a cat. "Is it possible? I do believe you're blushing, Professor Snape."

"Granger, cease this foolishness at once," he said in as curt and acrid a voice as he could muster. He glared at Granger's face, and found himself relieved that she still had a smile lingering at her lips.

"Roger and I are planning two sets of godparents, one in the Muggle world and one in the Magical. He gets to choose the Muggle ones, and I the Magical ones. Ginny is obviously going to be the godmother, and I was considering Neville, but, to be honest with you, Professor, I feel a bit… nervous at the thought of him just holding_­_—"She stopped and blushed deeply. Snape sniggered. Was it possible? He might just have witnessed the incredible incidence of a Gryffindor insulting a fellow Gryffindor—and in front of their Slytherin nemesis, at that.

"I mean… would you, Professor? Be Harry's godfather, I mean."

Harry's godfather. He thought immediately of Black, and the irony of it nearly made him laugh. Little Harry's godfather. Merlin. Him? A godparent? And of Harry. A little boy—half-Muggle, half Muggle-born—named in the memory of Harry Boy-Who-Bloody-Lived Potter. Suddenly, it was not the ridiculous notion of him giving godparent-ish gifts that he thought of, nor the memory of a boy with James Potter's infuriating face. It was something cold and distant and burning inside him like a pellet of ice.

"Severus?"

Granger's voice was too soft. Was he really so transparent? He turned around with an impassive expression planted firmly on his face. "Yes, Granger."

"Yes?" She paused, as though not certain of what he meant.

"Yes, I will be that brat… that child's godparent."

Granger beamed and reached to the mantle for Floo powder. "Good. I'm glad." She paused. "It'd have been either Neville or Fred Weasley if you said no, and…" She shook her head. "As much as I am fond of them both, I am very glad you said yes."

She gave him a relieved grin. Snape grunted awkwardly. "Go feed your fetus."

Granger laughed, shaking her head. "Yes, Professor." She tossed in the powder. "The Department of Mysteries, head office!" she shouted, and stepped through.

The flames curled on themselves after Granger disappeared, and lost their green tinge a moment later. Silence fell over the room. Snape glanced down at the teacup in his hand, and banished it to the kitchen with a quick flick of his wand.

An hour or two later, Snape returned to the living room with a vial of clear liquid. He considered the boy, and then the potion in his hand. There was no reason why he should not cast the spells that would force the fluid past the boy's lips with the efficiency of grinding moonstone, or handing in paperwork. He had no qualms about it at all. In fact, it was far less prone to accidents; the thought of having the boy lying askew in his arms while the clear liquid dribbled down his chin was not at all attractive.

He grunted, and settled at the edge of the bed.

"_Ebibere_," he intoned.

The potion lifted itself out of the vial and slipped between the boy's lips. Snape watched, feeling more trepidation than he would like to admit. The boy shivered like a reed, a flush appeared on his face, and his eyes slowly opened.

He tried to sit, but flopped back. "Who…"

Snape bit back any comments.

"Oh, you…" The boy rubbed his eyes and glanced around in confusion. "Did I… Where's this? This isn' St. Mungo's."

"No, it is not," Snape said. His voice was at its driest. "I hope you're not displeased that I decided not to leave you in the mercy of the welfare witches."

The boy shook his head vigorously, and then winced. "Ow. Feel like I've been thumped right here." He patted the back of his head.

Snape snorted. "That is what happens when you decide to imbibe the Tranquility Potion in its concentrated form. Fortunately, you had only a small sip; otherwise, not even the Philosopher's Stone would have saved you."

"Tranquility P—oh, shit!" He sprung up, and Snape jerked back by instinct. "How much time's passed since I was out?"

Snape frowned. "Eighteen hours, roughly—"

"Pete's gonna kill me! He's gonna kill me!"

"Where do you think you're going, boy?" Snape snapped. "You need at least twelve more hours before the potion is down to safe enough levels for you to go fooling around in the streets."

The boy looked wildly at the floor, the mantle. "He's gonna kill me! Where's the goddamned potion? Where'd you put the goddamned potion? Fuck, he's gonna _kill_ me." The boy staggered, and it was only by swerving at the last moment that he did not smash his head against the fireplace.

"Cease this at once!" Snape barked. He had crossed his arms and turned on his fiercest glare. Any student—any wizard he had known, for that matter—would have trembled at this, or at least stopped, but the boy kept stumbling about. He looked in the corners and fumbled under the bed. "Boy! I will not tolerate this stupidity in my house!"

"Fuck, where is it? Where d'you put it?" The boy was leaning against the wall, and Snape could see, feeling helpless and frightened, the pale shoulders trembling like a slight flame against the wind. "Where, where? God, Pete's goin' to kill me, he'll be so mad…"

Snape stalked towards the fireplace. "What—are—you—_talking_—about, boy?" he snarled, spitting out each word with as much force as he could muster. "Calm down or I will throw you OUT!" He ended with a roar that finally helped him gain a handle on himself.

The boy met his gaze with a blank look.

"Now," said Snape, taking a deep breath, "you will begin to speak like a rational wizard, and not some flea-brained Muggle." He stepped back, arms still crossed. "Explain yourself."

The boy's face scrunched into a frown. "I dunno how to do any magic," he muttered. "I'm a Muggle."

Snape stared. "What?"

"I was just sayin', I dunno any magic," the boy insisted. He was leaning against the wall, shoulders drawn together and back hunched. Sketched by only faint outlines that emerged from the skewed firelight, he looked older, like a twenty-something-year-old who had gone one too many days without food. "C'n I have the potion? Pete said he wanted it that night, and now it's day, and I haven't got it to him yet." The boy was trembling. "Please? I promise I won't mention you, Mr. Vesse. I won't bug you again, ever, if you don' want it." The boy was begging now, blabbering words that might as well have been the yelping of a dog. "Please, Mr. Vesse, please?"

Snape waited, almost holding his breath, for something—anything—the feelings that had commanded him to take the boy back, the purpose that had guided him as he mixed mirabelle with asphodel, moonstone with knotgrass. Nothing came.

"Very well," Snape said. He hesitated, but he turned and swept into his potions room, feeling shadows chasing his heels like nipping bats.

He paused to give a glance at his untidy workspace. An entire day, wasted.

The vial was in his hand, and he was already in the living room when he stopped. He would give it to the boy. Then the boy would leave, stumbling and bumping into walls and people by whatever long-winding Muggle paths that only Muggles knew, and Snape would probably never see him again—maybe only a glimpse at a den, veiled by smoke and ash. Granger would ask, next time he saw her, what had become of the boy, and he would say, dryly, simply, that the boy left. No, he did not know the boy's name, but he was in no danger of the crackle farms. No danger at all, _no_, Granger, did childbirth leave a dent in her mental capacities?

He stepped forward. The boy's eyes lit up. They were far too hazy for the boy to last for long. Within an hour, he would be an unconscious heap on the pavement.

"Is that it, sir?" the boy said. "Thanks, Mr. Vesse, if there's anything—"

Snape stepped back and drew the potion out of reach. "Not so hasty, I'm afraid," he sneered. "You would not be able to manage three dozen steps from my door in your condition. I'd rather you not crack your skull and fail my end of the deal."

"I'm fine, please give me the potion," the boy snapped.

"In two days' time, if you behave."

The boy lunged.

"_Stupefy_!"

Snape flung out an arm to prevent the boy's head from cracking on the floor. The vial fell from the boy's hand and skittered under the cot.

He did nothing for a moment besides stare at the boy. The fireplace crackled; the flames had sunk. He would have to feed it new coal.

Grunting, Snape hauled the limp body onto the cot. The pillow had fallen to the floor. He picked it up, cast a quick Scourgify, and nestled the boy's head onto it.

Snape stepped back and pulled the chair to a corner opposite the bed. With a flick of his wand, he summoned a Potions journal from the other room. It flapped through the air like a reluctant bird, nearly brushing the boy's face, before it landed in Snape's hands. He settled back, opened it, and began to read.

qp qp qp

The glacier seemed to bleed out of the sky and reach long hands down the rocky slopes. Ginny pulled her gaze away from it to where Cormac was talking to the Muggle, both dressed in similar hulks of brightly colored jackets.

"We've already had firearms training," Cormac was saying sternly.

"You've already…" The Muggle blinked. "But the center, ve did—"

"We've already had firearms training," Cormac repeated, more forcefully.

"Firearms… you've already…" A satisfied smile bubbled onto his face. "Good. Good. Seems like you know what to do. British government got you prepared. Much better than that American group last month. Call me up if you vant to head to the research base. Do you know my mobile phone?"

Cormac stumbled. "Er…"

"Yes," Ginny said.

"Good, very good. Then you know how to contact me."

"Yes, of course," Cormac said quickly. "Thank you."

The Muggle left.

"These are a tougher lot, these Muggles," Cormac muttered as they made their way to their hotel. Ginny glanced around quickly, but they were alone, and nothing stirred amongst the tufts of dried grass that lined the gray roads. The place felt too desolate for her liking.

"Hermione said to expect that," said Ginny. "There's a trend. That's why there are so many Muggle-Wizard enclaves in Iceland."

"And mobile phones," Cormac groaned, "I'd forgotten what they were. That wasn't in our training!"

"They're teaching that now."

"Doesn't help us, we've graduated now. Where'd you hear of it?"

"Hermione told me," Ginny replied, a bit pointedly.

Cormac made a disgruntled sound. They walked a few more steps before he sidled close and said in a low voice, "So what is it that you wanted to tell me?"

Ginny looked around again. It was better to speak things in secret in an open space enfolded by Anti-Eavesdropping Charms than in a room, which might have been tampered withbefore. There was plenty of open space here.

"Let's go up there," she said, pointing at the hill that rose from the edge of the town and, on one side, dipped under the grasp of the glacier.

Cormac nodded.

They hiked in silence up the barren soil. From here, the entire town was visible: the flat houses, the stark roads, the cluster of buildings that was the airport. It looked unbelievably depressing. Ginny could hardly believe any of the Muggles could make their home here. The box-like houses seemed little more than rat cages, and the streets looked pitiful against the vastness of the wild. Her gaze crept up from the bay to the hills. The land itself had an icy beauty about it: desolate, vast, and hostile.

"So what's up?"

Ginny turned to face him. He had a serious look on his face, and Ginny suddenly felt it unfair that Cormac should be dragged into this mess.

"Hermione talked to me before we left," she said, and paused. "What did Jack tell you about this mission?"

He frowned. "Just that it was by request of the D.O.M.," he said slowly. "He told me they thought there was a thing of power up north, but didn't say how important it was."

"It could be very important. This thing, according to Hermione's calculations, could be five hundred times as powerful as Hogwarts."

Cormac's eyes widened. "Merlin's saggy left— You serious?"

"It's what Hermione told me," Ginny said grimly.

"This is serious, Ginny," Cormac said. He was frowning. "Why didn't the D.O.M. get the Ministry to put it on higher alert? If this thing's five hundred times stronger than Hogwarts, it should be at the highest levels!"

"They don't know what it is yet," Ginny said defensively. "It could be something related to the earth itself, like…" She tried to remember the explanation Hermione and Aaron had given. "Something like magnetic fields, or…"

"What?"

"It's something comparable in the Muggle world. The point is, nobody knows what this is yet, which is why we're here to find out. It could just be a hole in the ground, some sort of natural conduit. Like the Pennines and Cader Idris." She had done some research of her own, which was basically reading up on the names that Hermione tossed out.

"So the D.O.M. thinks it's a hole in the ground," Cormac deadpanned.

Ginny felt a spark of annoyance. It was the same feeling that propped up whenever he belittled Hermione's work in the Department of Mysteries, or when he tried, though not so much anymore, to take the more dangerous tasks from her, or when he defended members of the Ministry that Ginny knew from the past to be perfectly capable of being underhanded bunglers. She remembered that she had been given a choice to work with him or Tonks, but she had chosen him, because Tonks had been in the war and the Order, and Cormac had been in neitherand she had not wanted to be reminded of the past. Now, though, she felt some regret.

"It could be—in fact, it's probably some natural thing," Ginny answered coolly. "However, nobody is sure. That is why we are here. To find out, you know."

"No need to get so touchy."

Ginny drew back. They were partners, she remembered, and felt somewhat ashamed. "Sorry."

"Don't worry about it." He gave half a grin. "Anyway, my skin's quite tough now. Francine's seen to that."

Ginny felt it safe to smile, but it faded as she remembered what she had to tell. She gave a quick look at their surroundings; they were still alone. "That's not even the punch line. Apparently, someone in the Ministry heard about it, and leaked it out to the White Knight."

"What!" Cormac's brows shot up before jabbing together in a frown. "Who told you that?"

"Hermione," said Ginny.

"How did the D.O.M. know?"

"Hermione was just putting two-and-two together," Ginny replied testily. For some reason, that spark of annoyance was coming back.

"Well?"

Ginny tilted her head slightly. "Why do you care so much how Hermione found out? And"—the realization of it dawned just as she was speaking the words—"why does it sound like you already knew?"

Cormac had frozen, his gaze halfway down the valley. Ginny felt as though a breath of winter had stolen down her throat into her stomach. He might not be the real Cormac. He might be an agent, a Death Eater. Voldemort's spy, masquerading, with the real Cormac captured. Dead. No, the Death Eaters were gone. That was all ended. She had to have a grip on herself, come on there Ginny. But as she dragged her mind from the past, she faced a tremendous reluctance from every pore in her body. Instinct screamed for her to reach for her wand. But she did not; the moment she did so, it would become real, it would no longer be just memories.

"You didn't know, did you?" she said.

Cormac cleared his throat. "No, I didn't," he said, and grinned so feebly it looked more like a grimace. "I was just… surprised that the D.O.M. knows. You know me, typical Auror thinking. We're always pissed off when someone else knows something before us." He had recovered, and the smile had come back as though it had never been gone.

Ginny nodded, face impassive. She was no longer dwelling; instead, she was thinking hard, feeling the ends of connections straining to meet. Then, she realized.

"You're in—" She paused and felt disbelieving fury explode inside her. "You're in Fred's Order! You are, aren't you? You—he—I can't believe it!" She ended with a shriek, but quickly controlled herself when Cormac scanned the hills. "Only Hermione and the Minister himself knew about Mitavelli. And the Minister has nice long talks with Fred. And you know." And Fred never liked Hermione, and of course Cormac would defend those idiots in the Ministry, so long as they were in Fred's pocket. "You… part of _that_—"

"Calm down, Ginny," Cormac muttered.

"Tell me, and I know you well enough that I'll see if you're lying," Ginny said flatly. "Are you or are you not part of that Order?"

For a moment Cormac said nothing. Then he exhaled, and nodded. "I am." He went on before Ginny could burst out. "You don't understand it, Ginny. We're not the way you think. The Headmaster said you don't like it, but…"

Cormac's words buzzed in her head: not the way you think… Headmaster… She noticed and quickly squashed a rising bubble of hysteria. "You've no idea what I think about Fred's Order—I don't think he does either. And why do you call him Headmaster? Unless it's one of the rules of his… cult." She spat the last word out.

Cormac looked to be shaking. "Ginny, you have no idea…"

"Cormac, _you_ have no idea," Ginny said coldly. "The Order of the Phoenix has done its work. Voldemort is dead. Fred has no right to keep it going like this. It's over."

"It's never over!" Cormac said, and for the first time there was ire in his voice. "There're always people to be looking out for, people sneaking about, trying to keep You-Know-Who's ways…"

"That's why there's the Ministry! That's why you're an Auror!" Ginny noticed that she was close to shrieking again. She clamped her mouth shut for a moment, trying to wrest herself back, but Cormac had started talking in her silence.

"You can't depend on the Ministry to catch everything, Ginny! Don't you see? You-Know-Who became so powerful only because the Ministry ignored everything it was seeing. If there'd been an Order like ours, if there'd been a group to watch for that thing…"

"Do you think Dumbledore didn't keep a lookout?" Ginny snapped. "If he couldn't do it, then Fred can stop dreaming."

"But that was different," Cormac protested, although the invocation of Dumbledore's failure made him appear less certain. "Back then, Dumbledore was at odds with the Ministry. He couldn't do much."

"Dumbledore—" Ginny shouted, but stopped herself. She was gripping her wand as tightly as she had in the final battle. Cormac, she saw, was holding his hands on either side of his body, with palms open upwards. Hands up, unclenched—that was the body language of the pacifist, the negotiator. Ginny felt rage slipping away, like the crumbling of stone. "You don't know Fred. He isn't doing it for some grand noble purpose. He's doing it for… something else." For what he thinks is for George, she thought, but could not say it aloud. She took a breath and changed her posture. "Never mind. If I've a problem, I should call it on him."

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner," Cormac said, looking genuinely unhappy.

"I never asked."

"But that's no excuse."

Ginny shook her head. "Never mind that. Right now we're stuck in an island with two magicists and one impostor and something that's five hundred times stronger than Voldemort."

"And each other," said Cormac with an expression of mock disdain.

A laugh escaped Ginny's mouth, and she punched him on the arm. "Prat."

Cormac pulled a puppy-dog look on his face. "Pals?"

Ginny nodded. "And _aura nos adligat_," she said seriously.

"_Aura nos adligat_," Cormac returned in kind.

"So. Mitavelli. Shall we apply the standard procedures for watching him?"

Some minutes later, after having decided on the methods of surveillance to watch the Italian, they began descending the hill. A few figures were walking down the street, but from the distance, it was impossible to tell who they were.

"You were already keeping a lookout on him, weren't you?" Ginny said softly halfway down. "Fred must've told you that Mitavelli was suspicious, after the Minister told him what Monsieur Néant wanted."

Cormac nodded once.

And kept her in the dark about it, she thought. Some brother she had. She tried to shake it off, but the thought was tinged with a disbelieving unhappiness that dragged like a tide. This was something important, that could possibly jeopardize lives, her life, and Fred had not told her. "If the Minister's part of Fred's Order, I guess this Néant fellow had to have quite a bit of clout to pull this through?"

"Seems likely," said Cormac, frowning. It was something he had puzzled about too, apparently.

They walked for another stretch before Ginny asked, "When did the Order figure out Néant was the White Knight?"

"A while ago, although we're not certain," Cormac said, with a hint of pride. "It started as one of the Headmaster's hunches, but my notes and… several other peoples' notes support it. We've been keeping tabs on him, but he's very careful so far. We figure he knows he's being watched."

Ginny was aware of feeling a grudging respect. She had not actually thought of what Fred's Order did; this was the first time she had learned anything, really, of their activities. It was impressive they had figured out so early. But, she thought, her fellow Aurors—and definitely Hermione—would have made the connections, perhaps even earlier, if there had been no layers of secrecy and allegiances to wade through. It was still subversive, still harmful, still selfish, but she quashed the feelings of outrage before they could surface.

The streets widened as they approached and one of the jacketed figures walked towards them. He stopped, hands in his pockets, amongst a clump of dried grass, and Ginny saw that it was Aaron. She waved and watched him wave back with wide, windmill-like movements.

"Hey Ginny," he said, smiling nervously. "Auror McLaggen."

"Magicist Skonser," Cormac said coolly. Aaron looked even more anxious at this, and Ginny gave her fellow Auror an exasperated glance.

"What's up, Aaron?"

"We've set up the trolleriometer to be portable," Aaron said. "Basically it's balanced between two extended broomsticks with a leveling charm. Of course, the leveling charm doesn't work when we're moving, but it'll be much easier than dragging the thing around as it is, I think."

"Sounds good," said Cormac. "When shall we set out?"

"Whenever the two of you are ready," said Aaron, his glance bouncing from one Auror to the other.

Ginny looked at her watch. It was still morning; they would have at least eight hours to locate the thing of power. In any case, they had a portable tent, and with the midnight sun, they would not need to return to the Muggle town.

As though on cue, two figures appeared down the road, one wrapped in a pink parka and the other in a featureless black jacket. They carried between them two broomsticks with the basin of the trolleriometer balanced towards the front. It reminded Ginny of a sedan chair.

"There they are," Aaron said. "Su Li! Mitavelli!" he greeted.

"I should hope they've cast some sort of Disillusionment Charm," Cormac remarked testily as they made forth to meet the two magicists.

"Hi Aaron, Auror Weasley and MacLaggen" said Su Li, looking a bit worse for wear. "Are we ready?"

Ginny's gaze flitted from Su Li to Mitavelli, who stood apart and somewhat behind. "Yes, we're ready," she said.

They set off on broomsticks soon after, and the Muggle town disappeared from view in a matter of minutes. In the distance, in valleys that sometimes emerged from the sides of the drab slopes, Ginny caught sight of one or two other Muggle settlements, but they were smaller, resembling small specks of dust gathered in creases of cloth. She wondered if anyone lived there at all.

Some time past noon, she heard Cormac calling. She doubled back to where he and Mitavelli were gliding with the trolleriometer.

"Can we have lunch now?" Cormac complained. "I'm starving. And his stomach is really getting on my nerves, it's grumbling so loud."

Ginny suppressed a smirk; Mitavelli stayed stony-faced.

They stopped on the side of a slope that dipped into a valley that ran with rivulets of ice. Ginny and Su Li had packed food they had bought the previous night from a Muggle store; much of it was fish either smoked or salted, or treated in ways she had not thought possible. Hopefully nobody would get any bowel problems in the middle of nowhere.

"What's this?" Cormac said, holding up one of those tightly sealed Muggle bags. "It's not fish."

"No," said Ginny. "It's reindeer."

"Blimey! Is it edible?"

"You can find out. I heard it's good, from the shop clerk."

Cormac hesitated for a moment, but ripped open the package with a cutting motion of his wand.

Su Li dropped her fish and screamed, then clapped a hand over her mouth. Ginny jumped to her feet and looked down the valley.

"It's a polar bear!" Aaron exclaimed.

"No, it's a bugbear," Ginny said flatly. She glanced at Cormac, who was at her side, wand at ready. The bear was on two feet,standing at the bottom and looking up at them without moving.

"It seems sort of… harmless," Aaron said, hovering hesitantly behind them. "I mean, it's not attacking us yet, and maybe we should just, you know, let it alone—"

"Bugbears, unless you get rid of them, will track you for up to weeks," said Mitavelli. Ginny looked at him sharply. It was perhaps the first time on the trip that he had spoken voluntarily. "Better put it down before it sucks your blood dry."

Aaron flushed an ugly brick color.

"A Repello Charm?" said Ginny.

Cormac nodded. "With a bitter aftertaste."

Ginny nodded sharply. They raised their wands together and jabbed it at the bugbear. "_Repello amaroris_!"

A yellow jet of light shot out, along with a dank smell, like the powdery corners of an old apothecary. The spells hit the bugbear and splashed over its fur. With a yelp somewhere between a dog's howl and a lamb's scream the bugbear turned and loped off down the valley.

"Poor thing," said Ginny, sitting down again, "probably smelled our food."

"Poor Muggles," said Cormac. "It's heading down their way. It's not going to be a happy bugbear that tries to steal their fish." He picked up the bag of reindeer. "Hmm," he said, and tore off a strip.

They set off again soon after that, heading north, with Ginny and Aaron manning the trolleriometer. A wind had risen from the north and stung their faces, chapped their lips. They went on for the next hour or so, stopping only to empty their bladders or bowels, the act of which was made simplerby the portable toilet Aaron and Su Li had brought.

"This is great," Cormac had enthused the first time Su Li had pulled it out of her bag and inflated it with a tap of her wand. "We could really use this for some of our field missions."

"It's neato, isn't it?" Aaron had said, beaming. "Su Li and I found it in the catalogue at Merck and Manning's Global Trot Shop. It was absolutely indispensable in Argentina. What's even better is that is recycles the excretion."

"What's that?"

"Recycles, I suppose it's more of a Muggle term. It's the idea of reusing something."

Cormac had stopped circling the toilet. "_Reuse_?"

"Yeah," Aaron had chirped. "There's a filter that creates an emergency reserve of water. It's very similar to what Muggle astronauts do. You know, in outer space."

Cormac had stared at Aaron as though he had popped out an extra limb. "Right."

They traveled in near silence for much of the afternoon. The wind would not permit their talking. The ground and their surroundings had changed soon after they left their luncheon spot. The bare hills and streaks of snow gave way to tremendous slabs of ice, glaciers that glittered and gleamed beneath them like a frozen sea.

It was nearing late evening, and Ginny was feeling her muscles in her back and legs complain, when Aaron leaned to the side and muttered, "I think the declination is leveling. We're nearly there."

Ginny nodded. A thrill of dread and excitement shot through her. They were nearly there.

The spot itself was obvious the moment they saw it. Su Li, Cormac, and Mitavelli had stopped first above a lip of ice, and when Ginny caught up with them, she understood why.

"What is that?" Aaron shouted, half his voice nipped by the wind.

"Not natural," Su Li shouted back. "Can't be."

Aaron peered at the trolleriometer. "Ginny," he called, nodding at the thing. They glided down before the folds of ice, Ginny steering most of the way while Aaron stared at the trolleriometer, prodding the liquid occasionally with his wand.

He looked up. "Can we go around it?"

They hovered in a circle. Ginny stared at the formation. It looked as though smooth sheets of ice had grown up from the ground and clustered together as petals of a flower. The thing was surprisingly tall, reaching from a flat plain to about the height of the Burrow.

"Ginny! Ginny, it's in here," Aaron shouted. He was smiling at her, his grin wide and excited. He tapped his wand to his throat. "_Sonorus_. Everyone! It's in here!"

The others clustered about.

"The trolleriometer points to the inside of this thing," Aaron explained excitedly, the wind warping his voice even with the spell. "And at about this height"—he reached an arm above his head—"is the level at which the declination is zero."

"That's very specific," Cormac said, eying the formation. "So whatever it is is in the middle of this… ice cube?"

"Actually, it's not cubic in shape," Aaron said, words tumbling out in his excitement. "I noticed from the hill that there's a very specific pattern. The formation can be reduced to concentric circles, each of which consists of five subcomponents, like the whorls of the corolla."

"What?" Cormac shouted.

Aaron gestured rapidly, nearly slipping off his broomstick. "If you go up and look down, the thing looks like a flower with petals in multiples of five. A pentagonal rose."

Cormac gave a skeptical look before soaring up to a greater height.

"So how do we remove the thing from the ice?" It was Mitavelli who had spoken. Ginny watched Aaron shrug his shoulders.

"Melt it? Cut it out? I'm not sure. But it's inside this, definitely."

Mitavelli's gaze stayed on Aaron for a moment longer. The other magicist shrugged again, looking uncomfortable. Finally the Italian looked away, for a moment catching Ginny's eye.

"We can do that tomorrow," Su Li was saying. "I brought the portable tent, it should be warm even if the temperature goes to minus ten, minus twenty."

Ginny peered into the walls of ice. Was there truly something inside? She thought maybe there was something dark in the center, but it must have been an illusion. The ice was opaque and gently orange in the flare of the sun, which seemed not to have moved from its place in the sky. The ice would have to wait for tomorrow.


	4. Breaking the Ice

_A/N: Once again, Procyon Black's exhaustive standards helped elevate this chapter from... well, what I could've done without that help._

* * *

**Chapter 4: Breaking the Ice**

Hermione had the vague feeling that something was wrong the moment she stepped into the office. It occurred only as a faint itch at the back of her mind, but the wards were speaking. She sat down and tried to open her senses to whatever might come to her.

The moment her gaze settled on the cabinets in the back, she knew what it was. Someone had tried to access her files.

Grimly, she stepped to the back of the room, one hand held protectively in front of her belly.

"_Reveloso_," she commanded, pointing at a small black mark on the wall.

A bluish light unfolded from the wall and rose into a hazy picture. Hermione frowned, tapped the picture, and watched as the first slid away and another took its place. The slideshow showed a man, wearing full, dark-colored robes, attempting to break through the wards over her file cabinet. She glanced at the time at the bottom of the pictures: 4:21:22 a.m., 4:21:32 a.m. It was the work of someone who did not know her schedule, then.

At 4:25:52 a.m., another figure appeared. A man. Evidently a superior to the first, Hermione thought, heart speeding up. Both their faces were hazed by an Anonymity Charm. The way he carried himself was terribly familiar. The first man seemed to consult with the second before returning to the cabinet, obscuring the other for a moment. 4:26:42 a.m., 4:26:52 a.m. The first had moved out of the way to reveal the second, sitting casually in Hermione's chair, wand held in between the index fingers of both hands.

Hermione gasped. She knew now. It was not so surprising—in fact, she had considered it, even—but actually seeing it still came like a punch to her gut.

The pictures shuttled by more quickly. At 4:35:02 a.m. the men were gone. Hermione tapped the wall, and the blue light vanished.

She stood quietly in the middle of her office. She could confront him, but she dismissed the thought immediately. This was not enough evidence, and he had built more connections than she. It was unfortunate, perhaps dangerous, that she had underestimated both the extent to which he would go, or the necessity of building a defense. Now, it was almost too late. Almost, but not quite.

She took a deep breath, and cast a quick Hex Detection spell over her chair, the floor, everything. How could he do such a thing? she thought, clenching her wand. They had fought together, lost together, and won together. But the outburst collapsed into a lingering sadness and regret. He had lost just as much as she; more, even. And perhaps he believed that she did not feel it as much as he did. He was so, so wrong. The hard-learned ability to center herself, to keep the emotions away until it was safe to fall apart, her closeness to Dumbledore because of her abilities, andthe necessary secrecy, had grown a wall between her and others. She had found herself groping against its hard surface when she needed them most. After Ron died. Harry's first disappearance. His second. Did she regret it now? She remembered telling herself it was too late, when the wall was only a shadow, then a fence, and then a line of dark cliffs.

She shook her head and took out a bag of raisins. There was no looking back now. And there was no denying the grim necessity of fight.

qp qp qp

Snape felt the boy pounding on the wards while he was adding monkshood to the Wolfsbane Potion. He smirked. Evidently, the boy had realized that the doorknob had been hexed to feel like a burning iron, and now he was attacking the door like a bull.

Without rushing, he finished this stage of the Wolfsbane Potion and moved the smoking cauldron to a corner of the room. The boy was now attacking the window. The typical Gryffindor behavior was starting to nauseate him.

He swept through the door and into the sitting room. He found the boy with a chair held above his head, looking ready to smash it into the window.

"Excuse me," Snape said smoothly. The boy whirled around and set the chair down. "Were you trying to rearrange the furniture in my sitting room?"

The boy blinked. There was a barely perceptible shudder to his shoulders. Snape frowned. By now, the Tranquility Potion should have been completely purged.

"Le' me out," the boy muttered. "You've no right keeping me cooped in here."

Snape stepped forward. He noticed the sweaty brow, the slight twitch of the arm. The boy was not well, that much was clear. Before he could cross the room, though, the boy scampered out of the way.

Snape sighed in exasperation. "There is something the matter with you, boy. Now, if you will stop moving so much, I will try to diagnose what it is…"

"I warn you," the boy growled, "I'm armed." Snape's frown deepened. It was almost as though the boy could not speak in a normal voice. "If you touch me, I'll not be"—he hiccupped—"nice with you." One hand crept, spider-like, to the back pocket.

Snape stepped forward, flicking his wand. "_Expelliarmus_!" The knife ripped out of the boy's trousers and into his hand. He slipped it into his robe. "Something is wrong with you boy, and it is not from either of the two potions you drank in the last seventy two hours."

"I'm fine! Just… just let me go, give me the potion and let me go, let me go…" The boy had slumped against the wall and was trying to steady himself. "I can' stand it anymore," he groaned. "I'm so cold, I'm so cold, I—" Suddenly the boy crouched to the floor and began retching. Snape leapt aside.

"I think a call to St. Mungo's is in order," he snapped, reaching to grab the boy's upper arm.

"No, not there!" the boy bit out, and the wretched pleading in his voice made Snape hesitate. "I jus' need the potion, and you've got to jus' let me go, and then I'll be okay, I jus' need to get out of here—"

"You're extremely ill with something beyond my capabilities to treat!" Snape barked.

"No, I'm…" The boy retched again. "Fuck…" he moaned.

Snape was steeling himself for the jolt of apparation when a memory came to him: a white-faced stranger trembling in the corner of a den, eyes turned inward with unseeing pain. Retching, trembling. And, at the sight of one of the agents of the White Knight, a desperate plea for more, please, more crackle—

Snape let go, struck for a moment by both the possibility and the impossibility. The boy moaned. "Lemme… lemme go…"

He grabbed the boy's shoulders and caught the hazy eyes with his own. Entering was easier than puncturing tissue, and the memories were practically presented to him. He saw a dark alley, hands taking out a small packet from a wizard's robes, and a mirror. A jump, and white powder, with its characteristic yellow sheen, had made several trails over the dark surface. A face peering into it—the boy's face, blissful, and the steady pleasure of breathing…

Snape grabbed the boy and roughly pushed him lengthwise onto the bed. "Muggle indeed," he growled, blood rushing through his temples. "You idiot. Only a wizard would have such an effect from crackle."

The boy's eyelids parted a crack. "Do you have any? I feel like shit…"

"Good," Snape snarled. "What you are experiencing is withdrawal. You will steadily feel worse over the next few hours. Then you will feel as though you had a herd of erumpets run you over."

"Fuck you," the boy hissed, clenching the bed sheet in both hands.

"I have heard that sleeping on top of a pentagram helps alleviate symptoms," Snape continued, voice steely. "If you ask nicely, I might create one for you."

"Why don' you lemme go, why can' you just gimme the potion and le' me off!" the boy shouted. He thrashed, turning side to side, skin soaking the sheets with sweat.

Snape hesitated. True, his end of the bargain was unfinished, and if Hermione was correct, then he was risking the wrath of the largest criminal organization in Britain.

"Oh God…" the boy groaned. "I want… I want to _die_."

Snape snorted. "Let me assure you: as impossible as it may seem, there are fates worse than withdrawal from a brain-rotting powder."

The boy glared, trembling. "You talk like a douche bag. And your nose is too fucking big." Snape stiffened. "Oh God." The boy flipped weakly onto his back and covered his eyes with his hands. "Can't you get me some? I'll do anything for you. If you want… if you want, I'll let you bugger me—"

"I am _not_ interested in your clumsy attempts at prostitution," Snape interrupted coldly. "Nor do I find you in your present state remotely attractive." It was the truth; he felt only a frightened revulsion of this strange boy whom he had, very stupidly, taken into his home. He should just have left the boy on the steps of St. Mungo's and be done with it.

"They've said that I'm as good as pussy," the boy muttered. "Anything…"

Reacting with sudden fury, Snape reached out and grabbed the boy's ear and jerked him into a sitting position. The boy shrieked with pain, but stilled when he saw Snape's wand pointed between his eyes.

"Perhaps it is not immediately obvious to an organism of your intellectual capacity," Snape whispered, "but you are currently in my house, and under my auspices. Considering that you are my guest, that I am showing you a hospitality I have not shown anyone—not even Albus Dumbledore, not even the Dark Lord—and that I could, at my slightest whim, put you under torture more exquisite than even your darkest dreams dare summon…"

The boy's eyes were beginning to cross. Snape pulled back slightly and decided he had better get to the point. "Let me make myself perfectly clear. I will not tolerate any profanity or obscenity, which you have been so liberally disemboguing,under this roof. Understand?"

The boy nodded jerkily.

"Good," said Snape, stood, and put his wand away.

"What d'you mean, disem… disemboguing?"

"To discharge the contents of by pouring forth. In other words, spewing."

The boy was chewing his lip and fixing Snape with a rebellious gaze. "If I am profane or obscene, what'll you do to me?"

"If I am feeling magnanimous, I will simply dump you somewhere in the middle of London without the potion you were instructed to bring."

"Then I'd tell on you!" the boy shouted, beginning to tremble. "I'd—I'd tell them how you kidnapped me and adducted—"

"Abducted; I do not wish to draw you any closer; nor are we crustacean claws—"

"Fuck you! Abducted!" The boy's faced blanked with surprise and he clapped a hand over his mouth. "Sh… I mean, bugger." He shivered again. "Bugger all." Eyes, blurred and unfocused, moved to Snape's face.

Snape kept a stony countenance. He stood, crossed his arms over his chest, uncrossed them, and then raised his wand. "_Accio parchment_."

"What're you doing?" the boy demanded. His voice was flat, confrontational, although his trembling undermined the effect.

Snape took out his wand and began tracing the outlines of a pentagram on the parchment. "I have spent more years teaching wizards and witches of your age bracket than you have been alive. I have learned that demanding any form of self-control from any of you would be equivalent to expecting lead to turn to gold by using a moonstone."

The boy was silent for a moment. He shivered and clutched at his shoulders with both hands. "I don' understand anything you're saying."

"I know." Snape slipped the finished diagram under the cot. "I have heard, also, that withdrawal is easier to withstand if you have something to occupy yourself with. However, I highly doubt you would be willing to amuse yourself with anything in my house, unless you would like to help me eviscerate naked mole rats."

The boy made a face. "Can't you just let me go? With the potion. They'll kill me if I don' show up with it. God." He squeezed his eyes shut. "I don' want your help."

"It's for your own good," Snape said nastily.He stood. "Please contact me if you encounter any difficulties. Let me assure you, all the wards have been doubled, particularly those around the window."

"Bastard," the boy muttered.

Snape tossed the potions periodical he had been reading to the side of the boy's bed. "If you decide to do a bit of light reading, I recommend the article near the back on the effects of dragon liver and horned slugs on treatments for gastritis. Though, I'm afraid, you might have difficulty merely finding it…"

The boy sprung bolt upright. "Why don't you jus' fucking let me go!" he screamed.

Snape leveled his wand at the boy and, with a feeling of great satisfaction, intoned, "_Silencio_." He watched impassively as the boy struggled, gagged, and finally began resorting to rude hand signals. "In case you yourself are unaware of the fact, though I do not see how it is possible," said Snape, "you are a wizard. If you were a Muggle, you would not be feeling any of the symptoms. Or, you would be dead."

Without another word, he swept out of the room, and slammed the door behind him.

It was evening when he emerged from finishing the last stage of the Wolfsbane. The potion was tiresome and tedious work, and it fetched such a disgusting amount money that Snape was almost reluctant to make it. The room, when he entered, surprised him with its stillness. The fireplace had shrunk to a few glittering points, and only a thin light entered between the curtains. The boy was asleep on the bed. Evidently he did not know how to sleep on a proper bed, Snape thought, noting the bundle of sheets on the floor. He hesitated a moment, but left the room without further ado.

The lit the candles in the kitchen with a wave of his wand the moment he entered. "Tibby!"

There was a faint pop. The house-elf bowed deeply. "Is Master Snape wanting dinner now, sir?"

"Yes," Snape said. "And set a place for a second person. What is the menu for tonight?"

"Sweet and sour chicken, sir, and vegetable pad thai."

"Keep the pad thai, and add a bowl of gruel."

"Yes, Master Snape, sir," said Tibby, bowing, and disappeared.

House elves were truly invaluable. He felt sorry for Muggles and any wizarding families (the Weasleys) who did without one. After the Dark Lord had gutted his lair at Spinner's End, he had found, with the unwanted help of some Order colleagues, this flat close to Knockturn Alley. Rent was cheap due to the location. The landlady, a no-nonsense sort of woman, had offered house-elf services as part of a package. Snape had been Slytherin enough to sense a good deal when he saw one. It had allowed him to keep his time-respected habits of avoiding the stove, the laundry, and any sort of produce shop at all.

He went back to the sitting room and refilled the coal in the fireplace with a brisk jab of his wand. "Wake up, boy," he said without preamble. "Get up." A groan came in reply. Snape paused, eyes settling on the boy's bare chest. He should have some old clothes somewhere.

"What's th' matter," the boy grumbled.

"I have decided to feed you, boy. Wait here while I find you something decent to wear."

He went to his own room and opened his wardrobe. Some of these shelves he had not glanced at since moving in five years ago. Robes, pants, socks, arranged descending in order of age. It seemed also to correlate with how grey they were, like ink that bled downwards.Towards the bottom he found a shirt that was still reasonably white. With a faint pang, he recognized it as something from his last years at Hogwarts. No wonder it still looked new; in those last months as a student, he had worn nothing but shadows.

The sitting room was empty when he returned. Feeling annoyed, he went to the kitchen and found the boy peering at the contents of the cabinets. Snape cleared his throat.

The boy jumped. "Sorry," he said, shutting one of the doors. "I was jus' looking for forks." He indicated the small square table, on which two meals had been set out.

"I seem to recall asking you to wait in the sitting room," Snape said silkily, holding out the shirt.

"S'ry," the boy muttered, pulling it on. He glanced at Snape, who found the boy's expression unreadable. "You going to punish me for that?"

The thought had not even occurred to him, but he only smirked. "I am considering."

"It was only a small thing," the boy grumbled as he slipped into his seat. Snape clenched his jaw; the boy's posture, which resembled more a loose-limbed beast than a human, was simply inviting criticism. "And I was hungry, I could smell the food…"

"The last stage of withdrawal is fatigue," Snape cut him off. "How are you feeling?"

The boy narrowed his eyes. "What's that?"

Snape hid his surprise. "Fatigue? Or… withdrawal?"

"The first one," said the boy. He reached across the table and speared a chunk of chicken, put it in his mouth, and began chewing like a troll.

"The state of being tired." Snape paused, looking at the boy intently, debating what question to ask first. His name? Why he was working for the White Knight? The boy reached across the table again, but jerked back when he was about to spear the chicken.

"Shit!" he hissed. "D'you do something?"

"I cursed it," Snape replied. "Most people find it impolite to have others eating off their plate. The pad thai and gruel are in front of you because those are your dinner."

"Bas… I mean…" The boy paused, as if, deprived of invectives, he had to invent his own language. "Why can' I have chicken?"

"It may be too heavy. You are only now recovering from withdrawal."

"And that's unfair, you can do hexes and shit, I can't do anything."

"Language, boy, and yes, you can," Snape said sharply. "Crackle has either no effect or a lethal effect on Muggles. Squibs generally experience nothing. The fact that you suffered withdrawal is proof that you are a wizard."

"It's not," the boy snarled, the ire clear even through a mouthful of noodles. "I can do crackle, but I can' do anything with a wand. It's like holding an ordinary stick. Believe me." He glared. "I've tried."

"You must have tried the wrong way," Snape said coolly, slightly taken aback.

The boy's face clenched with anger, but settled after only a moment into sullenness. "Look, Mister Vas—"

"Vesse."

"—thanks for helping me an' all, but could I have my potion now?"

"Not until you've answered a few questions," Snape replied, his voice still as smooth as a plane of ice. "You are aware, I imagine, of the fact that possessing or using crackle is a criminal offense under both Muggle and Wizarding law?"

The boy scowled. "What's it to you?" His gaze began to dart around the room, and his hands were clenched on the tabletop. "Are you going to turn me in?"

"I might."

The boy was still for a moment. Then he hurled the table aside, leapt from his chair, and tore from the room. Snape cursed and swiped a handful of sweet and sour chicken from his robes. He snatched out his wand and stalked towards the loud banging sounds emanating from the sitting room. The boy was repeatedly slamming a chair against the window. Snape aimed his wand just as one of the legs of the chair snapped in half.

"_Vinculum extremis_!"

The boy yelled in surprise as ropes shot from the walls and snaked around the boy's wrists and ankles and jerked him upwards. A moment later, he was suspended in midair, yelling to wake the dead, struggling like a pig that had been tied down for the butcher—

"What on earth?"

Snape whirled around to face the fireplace. The boy snapped his mouth shut.

"Granger," he snapped in greeting.

His guest pointed a finger at the suspended boy. "Would you like to explain this?"

"No," he said shortly. He felt irritated that the boy was so uncontrollable, irritated that Granger had come and seen this humiliating situation. "In case you haven't noticed, this is not the best time for a visit. In the future," he raised his voice and chilled it professorial coldness, "I would appreciate some sort of _warning_ before you invade my house."

"Ma'am? Ma'am, please help me." The boy had resuming pulling, but he did it only half-heartedly, as though to show how dire his situation was. "The man's been molesting me, ma'am. He's tying me up so he can rape me, I'm serious. You got to help me, ma'am, I don' have anyone, and the moment you leave me, he's going to rape my behind—"

"_Silencio_!" Snape roared.

The hush fell deafeningly. He glared at Ganger, trying to gauge her thoughts, unable to help from scraping the surface of her mind with a quick scan; he read surprise, suspicion—amusement?

"Severus, you needn't do Legilimency on me," Granger said, and Snape felt a flash of shame. Before it could twist into anger, Granger turned to the boy and said in a crisp voice, "Professor Snape is one of the most respected and powerful wizards of his generation. I hope you bear that in mind before you continue this rashness."

There was a pause. Snape felt his face flushing; powerful and respected?

"I must admit I'm not comfortable with the, ah, position he's in," Granger went on, incredulity and indignance creeping into her voice for the first time. "I'm sure you don't need to string him up like that…?"

"The boy was destroying my furniture," Snape said smoothly. He pointed to the broken chair. "The room would be covered with broken glass if I had not warded my window against vigorous physical assault."

"I see," Granger said, still sounding dubious. "Well, I trust your judgment. What spell did you use anyway?"

"_Vinculum extremis_."

"An Auror spell," she said with some surprise.

"They direct it differently. The effect is the same. One is merely more… efficient." He waved a hand negligently in the boy's direction. Snape met the furious glare evenly, keeping his face impassive. It was not difficult; he did not know yet what to feel.

"As I said, I trust your judgment," said Granger. She turned her attention more fully to him. "Is there another room we could go to? Or—er—maybe you could move him somewhere?"

"The kitchen," said Snape. He lifted his wand and flicked it in the direction of the door. The ropes flew off the walls and dragged the boy, mouth working in silent surprise, out of the room. While veering around a corner, the boy's shoulder hit the doorframe with a loud thump.

"You could be a little more gentle," Hermione winced.

"He could be a little less difficult. _Reparo_."

"Thank you, Severus," said Hermione, as Snape silently offered her the newly repaired chair. "What's his name anyway?"

"He overturned the table and began wrecking my furniture before I could ask him." This reminded him of his robes. He pointed his wand at himself and muttered a cleaning charm. The sauce pulled itself from the fabric only reluctantly. "Idiot boy," he muttered.

"You only asked him his name now? He's been in your company for, what, nearly twenty-four hours."

Snape's lips curled at the chiding Granger was having trouble keeping out of her voice. "He was asleep. Recovering from crackle withdrawal, I should say."

Granger gave him a disbelieving look. "He was using crackle?"

"Yes, and judging from his memories, it was no one-time 'experiment.'"

"But he's so young!" A grim look came to Granger's face. "They're targeting the younger ones more and more. It really isn't so surprising, sadly."

"The boy, despite the fact that he is clearly affected by crackle, claims to be a Muggle." Snape made a disgusted sound. "Why, I have no idea."

"Interesting." She smiled with slight amusement. "You shouldn't look down so much on the Muggle world."

Snape crossed his arms and gave her a derisive glare. "Do I need to point out your biases, Granger?"

Hermione shook her head. "Severus, I came to you because something very worrying happened."

"What?"

"Fred Weasley broke into my office in the Department of Mysteries." She sighed. "He attempted to access my classified files, but failed."

"You're certain," Snape said flatly.

Hermione nodded. "I'm certain it was him, but I don't have any hard proof. I'd installed a security recorder that would be activated by any unsuccessful attempt to access my files, so I've captured him in monochrome holography."

"But his face was unclear?"

"No, and they—Fred Weasley and his accomplice—wiped away all magical signatures. I only could tell because the intruder displayed certain mannerisms and a familiarity that I'm sure only Fred would have."

Snape sat back. They were silent for a long time. "What did he want?" Snape asked flatly.

Granger sighed. "I forgot to tell you about it last time, and I didn't think…" She pushed the hair back from behind her ears, the same age-old gesture she did in the dungeons of Hogwarts while pondering an obscure step in potion making, or analyzing an unexpected reaction. But now, her eyes had clear wrinkles around them, making them look old, like a mother with many children already. "One of my magicists created a trolleriometer some years back. Are you familiar with…?"

"A device that measures magic," said Snape. "Interesting that you used Swedish as the base."

Granger made a frustrated noise. "Oh Merlin, why didn't I think of that before? It makes sense now; Swedish is one of the northernmost tongues of power."

Snape waited.

"We used the trolleriometer to detect the magical field, much like the magnetic field in Muggle science." She paused, but Snape nodded. "We noticed that the trolleriometer pointed northwards, but one of my magicists noticed that it did not display declination. That is to say, most compasses experience a tilt at a certain angle—"

"Granger, do not insult my intelligence," Snape cut her off. "This is elementary cosmology."

"Oh," said Granger. "We only touched on it with Sinistra." She went on, "My plan was to send a small team of magicists with some discreet Auror protection up north to investigate. I talked it through with Rufus, and he approved it."

"But?"

Granger's face was grim. "But both Fred Weasley and Monsieur Néant had to have their fingers in the pie." She told him about her suspicions about the Minister's closeness to Fred Weasley, Weasley's intense curiosity about the thing of power, Néant's Italian agent. She said it all with the brisk readiness of an Order report. Snape listened carefully, aware that his mind was running along the old tracks, as if the last five years had never occurred.

"Have you investigated the whereabouts of the suspected Death Eaters who are still free?" he asked.

Granger nodded. "It doesn't seem to be related to Voldemort, thankfully."

Snape gave a sharp nod. He felt a heavy load dissipate from his chest. Anything but that. "Who do you think is a greater danger, Weasley or Néant?"

Granger hesitated. "I don't think Fred would do anything he considers dark, and the White Knight probably wants to use the power to increase crackle production, or simply strengthen himself. The thing is, I know too little about both of them. Fred I thought I knew, but if he could go so far as to break into my office…" She paused.

Albus would have gone farther than most believed as well, Snape thought, but kept silent. "What is the best case scenario?"

"That neither of them get it."

"That you get it," Snape pointed out.

Granger's lips twisted into a wry smile, but it faded as she shook her head. "The Department of Mysteries is nominally independent of the rest of the ministry, but I don't want to test that. At worst the Minister could force the Wizengamot to change the regulations so that I must answer directly to him. I can't go into politics," she said with a small surge of frustration. "It wasn't my line. Albus always took care of that."

"Yes," Snape said coldly. "He was always adept at having people do what he wanted."

Granger paused, and Snape could see her discomfort in her eyes. He probably should not have said what he had, but it was not her whom Dumbledore had abandoned—it was him; there was no one left in the world who understood why he had fought the war, and how much it had cost him. No one who had the power to help him search.

"Albus did his best," Granger said firmly.

"He did."

This was apparently enough for her, and she went on. "We're jumping ahead. Whatever the trolleriometer is pointing at might just be a fissure in the ground, or some spot of unusual natural activity. In that case it would be under the jurisdiction of the Norwegian government, and that'd be the end of it."

"But you think not?"

"I do think so," Granger said forcefully. "Magic of this magnitude must be linked to the earth itself. But I don't think they think so. Or, if they do, they still want a way to harness or control the power. Which, of course, is a very dangerous and very foolish thing."

"Indeed. Very few attempts have been successful. Most of them happened to involve the Dark Lord."

"Yes, he had a knack with these things," said Granger dryly. Snape raised an eyebrow. "What?" she said, after a moment.

Snape shook his head. "Your sense of humor has… developed, Miss Granger."

"I got pregnant."

There was a pause, and then Snape said, with matching casualness, "I see that you are exploiting my godson, using him as an excuse. I'm not sure if I approve."

Granger laughed, and Snape, unwillingly pleased, felt as though they had passed some sort of test. In that moment he found it safe to admit to himself, a little sadly, that he missed having someone to talk to. There was no more McGonagall to gloat at, or Dumbledore to snark with, or Lupin to insult. He had ignored it at first, so intent he had been on his attempts to find the shadow of his past, but the fervor, after year upon year of failure and night upon night of emptiness, had faded. He remembered Granger's words from long ago, words perhaps she had forgotten—_Can you, perhaps, try to forgive him, and perhaps forget him—just a little bit_? Surviving demanded nothing less.

"Without knowing the nature of this thing, there's not much I can do," said Granger, after she had finished laughing and was taking out that bag of Muggle treats, the same she had her previous visit.

"You can consolidate your power," said Snape.

"How?"

"In my estimation, you need to either ally yourself with Weasley with the guarantee that he will treat you as an equal; or, you need to find a way to gain hold over him."

"Mm. I could try to involve myself in his Order, although I don't know how he'd take it," said Granger. "Any advice on the second?"

"Have you talked to Molly?"

Granger shook her head.

"It would be advantageous to know her stance. If all turns out well, you will have several advantages: namely, the remaining Weasley clan; the fact that you have not sloppily done anything illegal—I hope"—Granger nodded at this with a slight grin—"and half the old Order."

Granger furrowed her brow. "Tonks and Kingsley I don't know about, though I have the feeling that Tonks would side with Ginny. I've the feeling that Mad-Eye would side with Fred. Neville would definitely side with Fred."

"But Miss Weasley and I will side with you," said Snape, eyes glittering. "I should take responsibility for the mother of my godson."

"You take this godfather business quite seriously," said Granger.

"That I do," Snape said smoothly. "So two, possibly four, siding with you, and two, possibly more, siding with him. Interesting. An even split."

Granger paused for a moment. "If Harry were here, still, he'd side with us, I think."

The air seemed to turn cool, as though a draft had slid in under the door and pierced their flesh.

"Sorry," Granger said anxiously, a moment later, but Snape cut her off with an impatient wave of his hand.

"Don't," he snapped. "There is no reason why I cannot talk of that insufferable Potter."

"No," Granger said.

She had an irritatingly thoughtful look on her face. Snape crossed his arms over his chest and said severely, "Potter is neither here nor there. Talking of him will not bring him back."

"No," Granger said again, wrapping up the bag of Muggle treats and returning them to her robe. "No, it won't." Snape waited, and found that his patience paid off when Granger, after his characteristic lip-biting and frowning, said, "I'm glad you've… that everything's going well for you, Severus."

Snape raised an eyebrow. There was too much an emphasis on the word 'glad.' "Did you not think I could? Is that why you came"—he waved an arm at his sitting room—"with that unborn 'little Harry,' to shackle me to more obligations in the world of living?"

Granger winced, obviously feeling that she had gone too far. Snape found that he actually felt amused, but hid it.

"Professor…"

"Was it only a whim that got you to drop by?" Snape interrupted. "Because this trouble with Weasley coincides too nicely with your visits. If you weren't in Gryffindor, I would commend you for such far-sighted thinking."

Granger paled, and a hand went to her belly. The gesture was so instinctively protective that Snape felt a sting of regret; did she think he was truly threatening her, even after all these years of being comrades? Really, he had been blinded by Jonathan Frost's memory. "Severus, no, not at all! It's… I assure you, it's completely coincidental." She made an exasperated noise. "Do you need to dose me with Veritaserum to be satisfied? Although I'm afraid I can't, Veritaserum has negative effects in the second and third trimesters."

"But after your 'little Harry' is born?"

A look of determination made its way to Granger's face, but Snape cut her off. "Don't be foolish. I could not possibly forget your Gryffindor tendencies enough to seriously suspect you of such designs. I do wonder, though, what it was that prompted you to come."

"It really was only Ginny mentioning you," said Granger. She looked rather wretched. "I'm sorry I didn't come by before, but I was honestly so busy, what with Roger and work and… But I did send you a Christmas card, which, I would like to point out, you did not return."

He sneered. "I do not write Christmas cards. Idiotic Muggle tradition."

"Maybe you should," Granger said briskly. "Harry would want it."

For a split second,Snape was unsure to whom she was referring, but realized, by her tone, who it had to be. "Mm. In that case, perhaps," he conceded thoughtfully.

Granger laughed. "You still surprise me, Severus!" She grinned and leaned forward with sudden warmth. "I'm really, really glad you've managed to move on, Severus."

He returned it with a vague curl of his lips. He thought of the endless days alone, the oblivion of mort, the brooding before the fire. Night after night, bottle after bottle emptied, the past so trodden upon that it was hardly recognizable anymore. Was it the memory of things nearly three decades ago, or was it his own listlessness, his own shock of finding himself without a master, without a buried recollection to serve? And this, even this—Granger's baby. Why had he so readily agreed to be its godfather? It could not be anything but an inconsistency, he thought. Was it for Granger's (and his own) sake, or was it because Jonathan Frost would have wanted it, that, if Potter were still here, he would be in this position instead, and Snape felt the phantasmal and wistful chains of obligation?

"I'm glad I came and talked," said Granger. She stood. "I'll see what I can do about Fred. The White Knight is only a danger if its opposition is torn."

"Indeed," said Snape, standing to see her off. "Be careful, Granger."

"I will. And that boy…" She paused. "You'll see to him?"

Snape scowled. "I am not sure what to do with him." He wished suddenly to vent—that the boy was too dangerous and vulnerable to let go yet too risky to keep for long—but some of the old distance of professor and student stayed, or perhaps the words would not come, and he kept silent.

"You'll manage," said Granger. "I trust your judgment. I'll see you later."

"Likewise," Snape said coolly, and Granger vanished in a whirl of green flames.

He considered the empty sitting room for a moment. The boy was probably furious by now—that, or knocked unconscious by some annoyed figment of magic. Snape admitted that it was cruel to keep the boy tied up like that for long; he would see to it as soon as possible; but after that—? He remembered Granger's words. Apparently, she trusted his judgment. He let out a harsh bark of laughter. Did Granger know how much she sounded like Albus with that statement? If she knew… if it was, perhaps, intentional…

But no; Granger was not the type. He was quite certain. And he did not want to doubt anymore. He did not want to wonder if more was to be ripped from him. First, his boyhood. Then, after Jonathan came and showed him how to live again, everything that he found he could live for. And after that, any shred of self-worth or dignity. Finally, all his conceptions of who that man, Jonathan Frost, truly was…

He clenched his fists and steeled himself. The memory coursed through his body like shards of glass in his veins. He gave a humorless chuckle. So he had moved on, had he? But perhaps, in a way, this was moving on. If he could accept that the past would never consent to remove its scars, if he could be content with a daily shadow, then perhaps it could be called "moving on."

He shook himself, flicked his wand at the curtains, and thoughtfully entered the kitchen.

qp qp qp

They warded off two more bugbears that night, both during the first watch, which was shared between Ginny and Aaron. Aaron had remarked that the bears might have been a mother bear and her child, despite the two creatures being of similar size, because of something or other to do with bugbear life cycles. Ginny hardly took in a word he said, but hearing his voice was comforting.

When morning came, Su Li, who was the only one who had not taken watch, organized breakfast. Ginny gratefully accepted her plate of bread and lightly salted herrings.

"These salt herrings have a really interesting history, actually," Aaron said while they ate. "They were on the staples of mediaeval European diet, and, partially because they were so important, people thought they could bear messages from God…"

"Red herring," said Su Li, who liked to test her proficiency in English with the others. "Something that distracts, right?"

Aaron's eyes lit up. "Ah. That's actually smoked herring, and comes from hunting, when someone drags a smoked herring across the trail of a fox…"

"Neato," Cormac interrupted. Aaron looked at him, a bit perturbed.

"When will we deal with that?" Mitavelli said. Ginny stiffened, but tried to hide it.

"Deal with? You mean, try to see what's inside?" said Aaron.

Mitavelli gave him disdainful look. "What else would you do?"

"We have to consider whether that's a good idea," Aaron said cautiously.

"I'm all for it," Cormac said.

Ginny shot him a narrow stare. "I don't think our mission is authorized to do that," she said testily. "We were only instructed to go so far as to find out the nature of this object, and not try to unearth it."

"Technically, how much that is depends on the magicists," Mitavelli said.

"Oh?" said Ginny, smiling coldly and ignoring the frown Cormac was giving her. This Italian was impressive; he even managed to sound rather apologetic. "I'm afraid I don't understand."

"We still don't know the nature of this object. It's just a chunk of ice right now. We'll keep investigating if we feel it's safe to do so. But if not, we'll head back, of course."

Ginny bit her lip. It was hard to argue against such sound logic.

"Roberto's right," said Aaron. Ginny shot him a sharp look. He needn't look so afraid to contradict her, she thought, half irritated, half amused. "It is in our jurisdiction to decide when to go back, although, of course, your concern is very practical, very sound…"

"So what do you think of it?" Ginny interrupted briskly. "Su Li?"

"We did some tests," she said, looking a bit surprised to be called on. Aaron seemed to biting his tongue. "We looked to see if there was any protective magic or hostile spells. Surprisingly, there were none. This thing is actually very… very…"

Aaron opened his mouth, but Mitavelli beat him to it. "Quiescent."

"Yes! Quiescent. Maybe it won't hurt us," Su Li suggested with a smile.

"This ice, we found, is just ice," Mitavelli continued. "If the power inside isn't breaking it…" He shrugged. "It probably isn't awake or alive."

Ginny nodded once, shortly. Five-hundred times the power of Hogwarts. The Italian's face was unreadable. She turned to Cormac.

"I'm okay with watching them," he said, sounding concerned. "If you want to stand back, I'm fine with it…"

Ginny gave him a withering look. "Thank you, Auror McLaggen, for your kind offer," she said. "Magicist Skonser, please lead the way."

Blasting away the ice was harder than Ginny had anticipated. Two of them had to keep up a shield while the other three send out a combined Reducto; Ginny and Cormac had to teach them out to combine the same spell from different wands. By the time the outer two layers, or whorls, as Aaron called them, had been cut aside, they were exhausted, but they had managed to reduce the formation to the diameter of two peoples' outstretched arms.

"There is something inside, isn't there?" Aaron pointed out during a rest.

The others nodded without answering. Ginny stared. It looked suspended, almost, in the middle of the ice, a blob roughly the size of a person. If she looked closer, perhaps she could make out an almost foetal shape…

"I feel like the ice is giving away less and less," Cormac remarked.

"I agree," said Aaron, wiping the sweat from his brow. "It's almost as though… the ice directly around the thing had been spelled to be impregnable. But we've gotten pretty far already."

"Looks almost like a person," said Cormac.

"Almost," Mitavelli agreed.

They were silent for a while more. Ginny got up. "Let's get to it, then."

Another hour of blasting. Ginny felt deep aches in her shoulders and pitting down her back. The thing inside the ice became gradually clearer and clearer. It was unmistakably the form of a human, a male, naked. The hair was black, she saw, and the body curled, childlike, into its self, almost piteously. This thing, somehow conducting power five hundred times that of Hogwarts. Her heart was thrumming rapidly.

"I think this is it," Cormac said after another round of blasting did nothing to the ice. "This is the farthest we're going to get, at least with Reducto."

They were silent for another moment. "Looks like he's sleeping," Su Li said, pointing at the ice.

"Or dead and exceptionally well preserved," said Aaron. He stepped forward and flicked his wand.

"Anything?" asked Su Li.

Aaron shook his head, and put a hand to the ice. "I think it's safe," he said.

Ginny stayed back as the others, exhausted, circled the ice, touching it with their hands, like some ancient druidic ritual. "Is it really a person?" she heard Cormac mutter. Ginny wiped the sweat off her brow. She found her attention torn between Mitavelli and the man in the ice—absurdly, she felt that it reminded her of someone she knew, but really, that was ridiculous—

"_Expelli_—" Cormac's voice sputtered to a choke.

Ginny flung herself to the other side of the ice, wand out. "_Stupefy_!" she shouted, but Mitavelli darted out of the way. He was touching the ice with one hand, and seemed to be drawing a rope around it. Su Li screamed.

Ginny felt herself frozen by Cormac's form on the ground; there was red on the snow around it. At the last moment, she found herself flinging herself to his side, half her attention fixed on the pillar of ice, the sound of Aaron's rapid words, the other frantically checking if Cormac was still alive—

Cormac rolled onto his stomach, wand clenched in his hand, a rivulet of blood from his nose. "Por'key!" he hissed. "Mi'avelli's go' a por'key!"

Ginny cursed in her mind and dashed around the ice. Aaron was tangled with Su Li, looking as though he were trying to protect her. Mitavelli stood with his wand in the air, his other hand holding what looked like a yellow chain lassoed around the ice. Ginny aimed her wand, but the Italian's edges were already flickering—

"_Consecto_!" she cried, and a bead of red sparked out of her wand moments before Mitavelli and the ice winked out of sight.


	5. Treachery

_A/N: Your enjoyment of this chapter would be severely marred without Procyon Black's expertise, as usual. _

* * *

**Chapter 5: Treachery**

Snape froze when he entered the room, and only his steely self control stopped the shock of a thousand possibilities from swamping his mind. He surveyed the scene in the kitchen. Four lengths of rope still hung in the air, almost questioningly. The room itself, its cabinets, counters, floor, seemed untouched. The platter of chicken, however, had been decimated, with only a few greens left swimming in the leftover sauce.

"Muggle indeed," he hissed. He took out his wand and held it before him. "_Reveloso_." Nothing brushed his senses beyond the usual immaculate cleanliness of his kitchen. He tried the other door. It opened. This was different; the familiar silence was wrinkled by the dull murmur of chatting, distant shouts, a hubbub of footsteps: noises of the street.

He entered his bedroom and crossed his arms. The window was wide open, and the window screen put, with grudging politeness, on the floor against the wall. There, neatly on the windowsill, was a steak knife.

Snape glanced at the small table next to his bed. The small vial of potion was still there. He waved his wand at the window, and the screen shot off the ground and struggled into place. "Idiot," he muttered, still staring out the window at the afternoon sky.

qp qp qp

"I' all right," Cormac muttered. "'e just bunched my 'ose."

"_Medicor_," said Ginny, wand aimed at Cormac's nose. After a moment, the other Auror wrinkled his nose and sneezed.

"Bless you," said Ginny.

"We've lost it," Cormac said bleakly. "The bastard… I knew he was up to something." Aaron and Su Li had approached, looking stunned. Ginny wondered if it was necessary to cast a shock-buffer spell on them, but on second thought, it was not. Already the shock was edged by a grim, determined look; there weren't Hermione's people for nothing, she thought.

"Actually, we haven't," said Ginny.

Cormac frowned. "What d'you mean?"

"I put a tracking spell on him."

He stared at her. "You did?" His face contorted through disbelief, elation, a guarded disgruntlement. "Where did you learn that?"

"The Order," Ginny said, and refrained at the last moment from adding, the real one. Instead, she turned to the magicists. "Can you two make it back to Longyearbyen?"

Aaron and Su Li exchanged a glance. "Yes," Su Li said.

"Good," said Ginny. "Go back, and tell Hermione what happened. Also, tell her that I cast the _Consecto_ on Mitavelli."

Su Li looked at Aaron. "Yes. We'll do that." Aaron nodded after a moment that lasted long enough for Ginny to feel the brief reluctance.

"We'll do that," he echoed, and the two hurried to mount their broomsticks.

Cormac had begun crossing and uncrossing his arms, which he always did when he was impatient. "So how does it work?"

"It's a bit tricky," said Ginny, for a moment distracted by Aaron's last backwards glance as he hurtled away over the snow. "And it isn't very safe either, which is why Hermione didn't introduce it for broader usage." She paused, deciding it unnecessary to tell Cormac that the _Consecto _flirted very dangerously with soul magic. "Make sure no… bugbears come, or something," she said.

"What?" said Cormac.

"I'm going to track him," she said. "Guard me."

She lifted her wand into the air. After a moment's hesitation, she pulled off the glove from her left hand and picked up a chunk of ice.

"Should I ask what you're doing?" Cormac said.

Ginny shrugged. He probably didn't know enough about soul magic to cotton on even with this obvious hint. "Grounding myself," she said.

She thrust her wand above her head and let a thread of her soul unwind out of her wand and arch out over the snow. This part always gave her a sick feeling at the pit of her stomach, as though she were being unspooled and at any moment might be completely unraveled. The threat was very real, and she admitted reluctantly that she was feeling nervous in the old sickly way, for the first time on the journey, perhaps the first time in years.

The emptiness finally lessened; it was like island hopping, on dust-sized islands over eternal oceans. Things began to separate from the fog. For a brief flash she saw Mitavelli's face, and behind him, the block of ice. She circled like a winnow in water. Where was he? It couldn't be Norway still, everything looked much warmer. Time was trickling away. She could not go too far, and she could not stay too long… Red-neon words materialized in front of her eyes. She caught her breath. _Donker Lucht_. It looked like some sort of den, she thought, or night club. Other words appeared; she tried, furiously, to commit them to memory. _Nacht danspartij_. She tried jerking her mind to other things, but an oily, drifty feeling had taken hold of her. A burst of fear pushed it back, but it was creeping closer, inexorably. She had overstayed. She forced herself frantically to focus on her hand—the ice was there, could she feel it? could she? …yes, she could, it was there, on the edge, fading. She flung herself out of Mitavelli's vicinity and felt herself dwindling across the sky… She could only feel her dim heartbeat, shallow breathing, the ice burning into her palm… She had to keep her mind on the ice…

…she came to, coughing and retching on the ice. Cormac was talking, emitting a constant stream of words in the way, Ginny realized belatedly, they had been trained for shock victims. She opened her eyes and squinted at the whiteness.

"Ginny!"

Cormac's voice sounded choked. Ginny staggered to her feet and patted her numb left hand against her leg. "I'm fine," she said, thrusting her hand into the glove. "Do you know any multilingual spells? Or rather, any language with the word 'Donker' in it?"

Cormac blinked. "You know where he is?"

"I know where he might be," Ginny said grimly. "Actually, I know what we're going to do."

"You are not doing that spell again," Cormac said flatly. "You looked like a cross between the Imperius and the Cruciatus."

"Yeah," said Ginny, feeling a bit sick at the memory. She lumbered to where their two broomsticks were and picked one up. "We're going back to the Auror Office and taking a look at the registry of night clubs that deal crackle."

"He's in one of those?"

"He'd better be," said Ginny. Cormac was right; she did not fancy repeating the spell.

An hour or so had passed by the time they returned to the Auror Office. Longyearbyen had been in a state of chaos, because four Muggles had spotted witches swooping about in daylight, and were about to ring up the local newspaper. After a very hasty memory-wiping session, Ginny and Cormac had proceeded to perform the very risky business of Apparating over a large body of water. Judging from their reception at Oslo, Aaron and Su Li had apparently done the same thing, which considerably ratcheted Ginny's respect for them—although, she thought, they would have to be reminded about casting proper notice-me-not charms when flying.

The Auror Office was in its usual state of midnight depopulation when they arrived. "Where's the Boss?" Ginny said to the room at large, moving aside in the doorway so that Cormac could come in too. "He didn't go home, did he? It's only…" She glanced at the clock. "Eleven thirty. Damn."

A purple-haired head peeked over one of the metal dividers. "Hiya, Ginny," said Tonks. "You're in luck. Jack's meeting with Hermione. He's expecting you two, I think."

"Right," said Ginny. She strode to a bulletin board and unpinned a sheaf of parchment from the wall.

"Heard you two had a bit of trouble up north," Tonks said, twirling a quill and slowly turning her hair pink.

"You could say," Ginny said grimly.

Tonks caught the note in Ginny's voice. "Not exactly preferable to paperwork, then?"

"Not really," Ginny sighed.

They made down the hall, and Cormac stopped in the break room for a cup of water. Ginny paused, hesitating, and proceeded to brew a cup of coffee.

She entered Hermione's office, feeling considerably more alive. Jack Demme was sitting in one of the chairs across from Hermione, leaning on the desk with a pipe dangling from his lips. Hermione looked up and jumped to her feet, as quickly as her belly would allow.

"Ginny! Are you all right? No residual dizziness, nausea, anything of the sort?"

Ginny shook her head. "I'm all right."

"Do you want some chocolate?" Hermione twisted her body to reach for a desk drawer. "I've got a Honeyduke's bar in here…"

"No, I've had coffee. Hi Boss," said Ginny, now addressing Jack Demme, who had a do-I-want-to-know look on his face. "Can I use the list?"

"I don't see why not," he said dryly.

"Thanks Boss. Hermione, d'you have a quill…?"

She took it, and wrote carefully on the dotted line at the upper left the words she remembered: _Donker Lucht_. The parchment crinkled and folded to life, flipping on itself to the third page. A squiggly black box formed around one of the entries.

"Amsterdam, Netherlands," Ginny muttered.

"The _Consecto _took you there?" Hermione said.

"Yes," said Ginny. He might not be there anymore, but everyone knew that, she was sure. It was as good a lead they had. She waited. Hermione and Jack Demme exchanged a glance.

"The ice is somewhere in Yorkshire now," said Hermione. She pointed to a table at the corner, and Ginny saw the familiar basin, with the clear gold liquid. She approached the trolleriometer. The needle, still floating peaceably, looked no different from what she remembered.

"But you might as well go after Mitavelli," said Demme. He took out a small box from his vest and refilled his pipe. "We have no idea where in Yorkshire they may be, and this Mitavelli might give us some hints. Does he seem much of a tough nut?"

"He throws a good punch," Cormac said, a bit ruefully. "But other than that…"

"He's no slouch, but nothing we shouldn't be able to handle," Ginny said.

"Do you want me to give the Dutch Ministry a head's up?" said Demme.

"That would be a good idea," said Hermione, "although you might want to hold back, if they ask, on telling them just how important this… thing might be." She held Ginny's gaze. "Aaron and Su Li said there looked to be a person in the ice."

Ginny nodded and exchanged a look with Cormac. "There was," she said.

Hermione sat back and shook her head. "That's… incredible. Impossible—almost." A detached look came to her eyes. She was thinking, calculating, Ginny thought, recognizing that expression from the mustiness of the Order headquarters.

"We'll go then, if that's all," Ginny said. Another cup of coffee might be good, she thought. She was feeling fatigue gnawing at the edges of her mind. She had not slept well the previous night in the oddly rarefied surroundings at Svalbard, and her muscles were burning with a slow ache, ignited by a steady drip of adrenaline.

"Just a minute," said Hermione, breaking out of her reverie. "Don't do the _Consecto_ again, Ginny. We've got the trolleriometer. It's okay if we don't have Mitavelli."

Ginny nodded.

"_Aura patronicor tu_," said Hermione, just as her fireplace unfurled a blaze of green.

"That's my line, Granger," Jack Demme muttered. "Take care, you two."

"Thanks Boss," Ginny said, Cormac echoing her words, as they left the office.

qp qp qp

A bit of the green crumbles were protruding from one end of the joint. He pushed at it with one finger, a bit irritated for messing up so simple a thing.

"Ye could use a spell," the dealer chuckled.

Snape glared. "And you could keep yourself occupied elsewhere."

The man shuffled off, still chuckling annoyingly.

The hip-thrusting crowd of Hell's Chateau was churning around him again, an aggravatingly adolescent mess. Wolf-faced brutes gazing hungrily at each other. Snape's lips curled in disgust, and quickly he made to light the joint, but stopped himself, keeping his movements slow, steady, mockingly lazy. Whom was he deceiving? He wondered, briefly, what Granger would think of his godfathering abilities if she could see him here, reclining like a Roman in a Bacchanal revel.

It was obvious how the boy had escaped. The steak knife had been left out, and the boy, in a burst of magic, had taken hold of it. He wondered if the boy was now busily convincing himself that he was not a wizard, and hoped vindictively for the boy's failure. Muggle indeed.

Snape straightened. There, towards the back of the crowd, he could see the bald head of Monsieur Neant's agent. Or rather, the White Knight's agent. With a sigh, Snape boggarted the joint, drew his robes around him, and proceeded to glide across the dance floor.

"Mr. Vesse," said the bald man. His eyes, one of which as slitted like a cat's pupil, narrowed. "Or, should I say, Mr. Snape?"

Snape stiffened. "Good evening, Etep," he said. Suddenly he paused and let a slow smile spread over his face. "Or, should I say, Pete?"

The man grunted and cracked his knuckles. Snape crossed his arms coolly over his chest. The other man was a good two or three inches taller, and had arms as thick as his legs.

"You didn't keep up your end of the bargain, Vesse, or Snape, whoever you are," Pete growled. "Our messenger returned without either a Gringotts cheque, or a vial of Tranquility Potion, which you were supposed to deliver to us a few days ago."

"If you'd had the finesse to check, Pete"—he twisted the common, highly Muggle name with a sneer—"I think you would have realized that I have not cashed the check." Someone bumped into his arm, and he jerked away with an irritated snarl. "Moreover," he went on, "it is not my responsibility that you are without a Tranquility Potion. Your messenger took possession of the potion. He, however, proceeded to take said potion at five hundred times the normal dosage. I could have let him die, but I decided, in my good heart, to prevent—"

He felt someone else bump his arm, and he whirled around with his best classroom sneer, only to find himself staring at the mouth of a bald-headed man of the same massive proportions as Pete. Snape tightened his grip around his wand, cursing himself for being so unaware. There was another thug, he noticed, belatedly, flanking him at either side.

"You were saying?" Pete said with something of a smile.

"I was saying," Snape said, coolly, making sure a look of utmost contempt was on his face, "that the cause of the delay was the stupidity of your precious messenger."

As if on cue, the crowd went through a miniature convulsion of cheers and whoops, and Snape heard the first words of that song, crooned by that now damnably familiar voice.

_Give me a map_

_Marked with an 'X'_

_That'll lead me to your heart_…

Snape scowled. Pete had something of a leer on his face. Snape wondered, with a dark flash of hate he had not had since his darkest teaching days, what sort of lies that idiot boy had told. He kept his arms crossed firmly across his chest, refusing to crane his neck like every other mindless convulsing beast in the room.

_Tread softly_, the brat was whispering at an obscene pitch, soiling those long remembered words with a profane melancholy, _tread softly_, _because you tread on my dreams_…

The crowd disintegrated into cheers and a ravenous beat that drowned everything else. The lights went out and flashed on again in dizzying shades of green, red, purple. Snape kept his eyes on the three thugs around him; Pete had nodded to one of the others, who, a moment later, vanished into the crowd.

"C'mon, Mr. Snape," Pete growled, reaching out an arm and lugging it heavily over Snape's shoulders. The Potions master stiffened, ready at any moment to blast the two numbskulls into oblivion. Perhaps now was the best time; the third was gone— "We've something in the back that you'd probably like to see."

Half pushing, half steering, Snape found himself directed through the readily-parted crowd, and to the back of the den. He had a jolt of déjà vu as Pete flung open the door and pushed him into the blind alley at the back.

Quick as a flash, Snape had steadied himself and was pointing his wand from a safe distance away at the lumps of shadowy muscle in front of him.

"Should I thump him?" one of them grunted.

"No, he's got a wand, you dumbass," Pete snapped.

"Observant," Snape said coolly.

The door slammed open. The third thug stomped out, clutching against his chest a squirming, scrawny figure.

"Le' _go_ of me! I swear, I'm warning you, I've got a knife, I'll kill if you don't let g—"

Snape had opened his mouth to tell them to let go of the brat, but the boy had frozen. A moment later, Snape saw why: there was a gleaming blade at the boy's throat. Pete grinned, a fiendish show of glittering false teeth, and jerked the knife with a mocking growl. The boy tensed and grabbed the thick forearm with both hands, his eyes darting about in fear.

"_Expelliarmus_!" Snape snarled. The bolt of light shot out of his wand but veered out of the air and disappeared into the ground at the Pete's feet.

Snape lowered his wand, feeling the blood drain from his face.

"How'd you do that?" one of the thugs whispered in awe.

"Shut up," Pete growled, a smug look on his face.

"He used some of Abraxas Malfoy's old stock of werewyrm powder," Snape said coldly.

Pete's expression soured. "How'd you… Well, you know, somehow, you old git. That's not going to help you any, though," he grunted. He jerked the knife again, and the boy gasped.

"You know that werewyrm powder fails with potions or the Unforgivables," Snape said. Slowly, though never not keeping his aim fixed threateningly ahead, he raised his wand arm. "It works minimally on the Imperius. Little on the Cruciatus. None on"—he made a stabbing motion with his arm, and the three men jerked in unison—"Avada Kedavra." A small trickle of blood, he noticed with the cold objectivity he reserved for evaluating potions ingredients, or shattered bodies after a Death Eater raid, had made its way down the boy's neck, and was slowly beading down the plane of his chest.

"Go ahead, Snape," Pete hissed. "But if you try any of them, they'll hit your little boy first."

Snape narrowed his eyes. "I assure you, I don't care. I don't know what he told you, but I harbor no feelings of obligation or affection for him whatsoever." He gave a snort of contempt. "I don't even know his name."

The boy vainly kicked out a leg. "It's—Niles—" he stammered through clenched teeth.

Snape stared. Of all names, Niles? He wiped the surprise off his face and bit out each word coldly. "That does not count."

"Your call, Snape," Pete said ominously.

Snape frowned. "Actually, at this point, I'm afraid I don't quite understand why you are threatening me with this boy's death, as pathetic a threat it is…"

There was a pause. "Right," Pete said gruffly. He tightening his grip, and the boy made a squealing noise, reminiscent of a hedgehog on the butcher board. "I want a potion that can melt any ice. And I want it from you in an hour. Otherwise…" He grinned and jerked his arm again.

"Stop that," Snape snapped. "Any deeper and you'll have killed your leverage prematurely."

"Yeah, Pete," one of the thugs piped up, "the boy's bleeding already. If you move anymore, you might take his head off, just like you did with that old wanker…"

"What might you want this particular potion for?" Snape interrupted.

"None of your business," Pete growled.

Snape sneered. "And who would my client be? It strikes me that this whole setup is ridiculous. I would happily do business with Monsieur Néant again, and I have absolutely no qualms about making a simple melting potion…" The White Knight. Granger, telling him about the mission north. North. Vast, icy plains, covered with layer on layer of frost, hiding an object of unimaginable power. He could feel his blood pounding through his body.

"It's none of your business," Pete snarled threateningly. "So, what do you say, Snape? A life, or a potion?"

The trickle of blood had disappeared into the rim of the boy's black Muggle trousers, tracing a line that cut the pale torso in half.

"Melting potions are a rather unusual request," Snape said in his lecture voice. "There have been few potions invented that specifically address this purpose. The one most suited for your client's purpose…" He paused. "That would most likely be a vial of _shen huo jing_, a naphtha-based material invented in Tang dynasty China."

"Do you have it?" said Pete.

"I do happen to have one vial, back in my laboratory, but, inconveniently, I shall have to return to retrieve it…"

Pete nudged one of the thugs with his foot. "You two go with him."

"I only need one escort," Snape said coolly. "Or rather, none, but if you insist…"

"Both of them," Pete snarled. "And leave your wand here."

"I'm afraid I can't Apparate without it."

"Don't be difficult. Give an approximate location or something. One of them can Apparate you."

"Yes, and I am certain one of them can unlock the wards on my house, and my laboratory, especially wards that have been keyed to my wand…"

Pete grinned. "Do you expect me to believe that you keyed your wards to your wand and not your magic?" He snorted contemptuously. "Put down your wand, or the boy dies."

"I'm afraid that is rather impossible," Snape bit out.

Pete beckoned at the two thugs. "Here," he said, "rub your shoes against mine…"

"_Stupefy_!" Snape roared. The red light arched out of his wand, but Pete jerked forward—Niles gave a little yelp—and the bolt collapsed into itself and shrunk into the ground.

"Go on, he won't do anything," Pete shouted. "Go on, now!"

Snape backed down the alley hurriedly as the two thugs lunged. Panic boiled under his lid of furious self control. "_Crucio_!" he shouted. "_Crucio_!" That feeling of an oily pit being stuck at the back of his throat came; he watched the coils of black, at first weak, blaze to life and leap at the shrieking thug closest to him.

"His wand!" Pete shouted. "His wand!"

The first thug lurched forward, catching Snape's waist. He crashed backwards and gritted his teeth as pain exploded up from his tailbone. A hand grabbed his wrist. His mind screamed at him to yell out a curse, but the pride that he forced him to clench his jaw in silence was too strong, and a moment later his fingers were clutching at nothing.

"I got it! Here's his wand, here it is…"

Panting, Snape tried to pull himself from under the fallen thug. His robe was soaked in water from the stinking puddle he had fallen into. The brawny mass that entrapped his lower body gave a moan, and, with the other man's help, got slowly to his feet.

"Bastard," the thug hissed, and Snape's body snapped into a protective fetal position as the man's foot swung at his groin. One of them chuckled. Holding the wall to steady himself, Snape dragged himself to his feet, tried to control the trembling that was wracking his frame. The pool of light on the pavement was several steps away; all he could see were shadows, and the glint of a blade.

"You know what they say," one of the thugs sniggered, "a wizard without his wand is a dick without his pants."

"Shut it," said Pete, though from the dull shadow of whiteness it looked as though he was grinning. "Tell us where you live, Snape."

He straightened himself and put his most contemptuous sneer on his face, his deepest disdain into his voice. "Near Knockturn Alley."

"That's not too far, then," one of them said, relieved. "I was afraid of getting us splinched…"

"If you're not back in ten minutes," Pete interrupted, "you'll find the boy lying in a puddle of his own blood. And you might have a few slashing curses on your wand, in addition to what you have already." He looked terribly pleased with himself, and shifted the boy closer. Niles lashed out a foot, like the last movement of a dying cockroach.

"I see," Snape said in a droll, unimpressed voice. He felt two big hands grip his shoulders.

"Ready?" one thug grunted.

Snape nodded. With a last glance at Niles's furious, terrified eyes, staring unblinkingly like the gaze of one very old or very young, he felt himself being squeezed violently into a tunnel of magic that was not his.

"This your place?" grunted one of the thugs a painfully disorienting moment later. "Looks a bit…"

"Yes, it is," Snape interrupted. "Stand back, unless you want to be vivisected on my doormat."

The two shuffled backwards. Snape strode forward, and a lamp flickered on at his approach. He put a hand on the door and waited, observing the two hulking figures coolly.

"What's taking you so long?" one of them grunted, crossing his massive, tattooed arms over his chest.

"I can enter right now, but clearing the two of you through the layers of my wards takes more than a moment." Snape stood aside. "You are welcome to try the door right now," he sneered.

"We're not idiots," one of the two thugs said in a threatening voice.

Snape curled his lips. "I cannot see why that idea would enter your heads."

The thug swung his arm, and Snape staggered from the blow to his face.

"Listen, you git," the thug growled, "shut your trap, or we'll let you have it before we take you back."

"No need to be violent," he snapped, feeling the right side of his face begin to swell.

The thug—Snape recognized that it was the one he had cast the Cruciatus on—drew back his fist and lunged forward. Snape winced but kept his back straight, his jaw clenched. He opened his eyes to the fist mere inches in front of his face.

"Your door ready yet, Snape?" the other one asked.

"Yes, it is," Snape bit out. He hesitated only a moment before pushing the door open. The thugs muscled in next to him, almost shoving him through the door. He barely opened his mouth when he felt thick hands gripping his wrists behind his back.

"So, where is it?"

"In my laboratory," he said coolly, "but I'm afraid you can't enter it without experiencing extremely blunt trauma to the neck and head." He kept himself motionless and his voice even. The room was dark, almost pitch black except for the tenuous, milky _Lumos_ from one of the thugs. He could see, or thought he could see, the two exchange glances. "Again, you are welcome to try if you don't believe me."

"I'll break your neck if you're lying," one of them hissed.

Snape sneered. The hands let his arms go, but returned as a clamp around the back of his neck. "Which way?"

"Forward," Snape said.

They moved slowly in the darkness, the thugs warily, and he with an almost negligent malleability. Every so often he directed the way—out the door, a few steps down the hall, no, not that one, there, idiot (this he only thought). They stopped in front of the laboratory door.

"You will have to let go of my hands," Snape said. "Unlocking the wards requires motility of my arms," he added, when the thugs did not respond.

"You better not be lying," the same on hissed as before as Snape, ignoring it, lifted his hands to the damp wood. They were silent for a moment. Then the door glided open into an even deeper darkness.

They stepped inside with a clang, and one of the thugs cursed. "Don't you have any fucking lights in here?"

"Yes," Snape said. "I need my hands again. The _shen huo jing_ is in a warded cabinet." Another pause. "Do try opening it if you wish to receive severe lacerations and potential amputation of your fingers. The cabinet is situated to the back, and please remember to go straight for the bottommost shelf, as that will result in puncture wounds in addition to—"

"Just do it," the thug hissed, his enormous hands planted threateningly around Snape's neck once more.

Snape set both his palms on the wood. One of the thugs was directly behind him, the one with its rough fingers encircling his throat. Another was to his left, a breath from his shoulder, holding the glowing wand up at the level of his chest. Snape opened the cabinet doors; the rows of vials glinted like crowded stars through thin mist. He began his intake of breath even as he reached, casually, to the back of the shelf.

The thug behind him began to speak, "Which one is—"

He closed his eyes, tilted his head, and jerked the uncorked vial over his left shoulder, then again, and again, again. The hands slipped from his neck just as the two thugs gave matching cries of pain. He darted to his right, eyes still closed, lungs still holding that same dwindling breath. He knew this place better than the back of his hand; sometimes he made his potions in the dark, to make it easier to slip into a state of non-being, non-thinking, existing only at the soft murmur of magic at his fingers. Another harsh, almost gargled cry. He stumbled forward, hands ahead—two more steps and he should reach the door— His toe hit something, and, carried by moment, it hit his shoulder as well; the door, he thought, clutching it with both hands, and slipping, his lungs nearly consumed by fire, to the other side—and slammed it behind him.

He staggered down the dark hall to his sitting room while taking deep, staggering breaths. His eyes had not yet adjusted to the darkness, and he groped the mantelpiece, fingers finally finding the round container of Floo powder. He took a pinch and flung it at the fireplace. Thank Merlin it was self-immolating, he thought as a green flame swirled to life.

"Department of Mysteries, Head Office!" he shouted. He stepped in and felt himself flung down a vortex of flickering green, past flashes of hearths, fireplaces, a dizzying whirl of flames, before he was ejected roughly onto a hearthrug.

"Severus!"

He heard her before he managed to blink the soot out of his eyes and see her surprised and concerned look.

"Severus, your face! Were you attacked?"

There was a man sitting at Granger's desk, he noticed, summing him up with a pipe stuck between his lips. "No," Snape said coolly, rapidly, "I merely walked into a door. I did not think you would be here so late, but this was the safest place I could think of when I Flooed out." He paused, briefly, and turned to address the man. "Are you Jack Demme?"

The man frowned and nodded. "And you are?"

"Severus Snape. Can you spare an Auror? Two intruders have invaded my residence."

Granger looked aghast. "But your wards?"

"I was coerced to let them in, but the invaders are incapacitated now," Snape said quickly. "I believe they're affiliated with the White Knight. Please, Granger, I have no time."

The man gave Granger a questioning look, which she must have answered with an affirmative, as he stood, thought a moment, and said, "Is one Auror enough?"

"Yes, I said they were incapacitated," Snape snapped. "Granger, I need a wand."

Granger, to her credit, said nothing, and opened a drawer to her desk. "Here," she said. "White Knight, d'you say?—and how much time do you have?"

"Three, maybe less," Snape said grimly. He caught her eye. "They're using the boy as ransom. As of now he's a shiver away from having his throat cut."

"Merlin," Granger hissed between her teeth.

"His name is Niles," Snape said, irrelevantly. "Do you know why the White Knight would want a melting potion? Ah—you do." He crossed his arms over his chest. "Has it to do with that thing up north you mentioned?"

"Did you guess that, or did you find that out?"

"I guessed."

"Yes it's to do with that," Granger said. "The thing of power is actually a human being—or something resembling a human—trapped in a block of ice that could not be broken or melted by conventional means."

"And the White Knight has it," Snape said flatly.

Granger nodded, frowning and biting her lower lip with a mixture of anger and defeat. "I had two Aurors on him, the mole, and I thought—but well—" She recovered herself quickly. "Sorry."

Snape felt his lips curling, an automatic response. "Please," he said. He uncrossed his arms and began to pace, putting Granger's suddenly student-like face out of his mind, or at least out of sight. How much time did he have left? Two minutes? One? He wondered how closely that man Pete counted time.

"I will not give him a real melting potion, then," Snape said, "but it has to be something that looks like what I told them I would bring." Perhaps a mixture of sulfur and fermented nightshade. But no, that wouldn't melt even ordinary ice. What could he bring, what could he bring? Niles suddenly came to his mind—like a pale slim fish in the hairy arms of an ape, or a crevice of white peering out of a dark face. A line of red blood down the center. He pushed the thought away. Why not a tracking potion? an insidious voice whispered from the back of his brain. Why not a hardening salve? A poison that would drug all who were in its vicinity? Because the boy needed to be saved, he thought grimly.

He broke out his reverie to see a torn look on Granger's face. "What is it?" he said flatly.

"Severus—" she began, but broke off when the door to her office opened.

"Snape?" Tonks said in disbelief.

"Nymphadora," Snape greeted brusquely. "Excellent, you already have passage through my wards."

"There are two intruders in your house, you said?"

"Yes, towards the back, probably still in the laboratory, but they'll be no problem," he said. "I used Mordacis. Fire-ant powder."

Tonks winced. "Ouch. Must hurt. Probably deserved it though," she added. "What shall I call?"

Snape hesitated. "Number 14, Lesser Stafford Street."

He watched her step into the green fire before returning his attention to Granger, who was standing in the middle of the room, her hands pulling nervously at each other on top of the great bulge of her belly.

"What is it Granger?" he said coolly. "Either tell me, or don't. I have no time left."

She disentangled her hands and let them drop to her side. "There's only one person who might be the"—she waved her hand at the loss of words—"being in the ice." She repeated herself more quietly. "Only one person I can think of."

Snape felt the pit begin forming in his stomach. "Who?"

"Harry."

He stepped back. It was not the half-apologetic, half-resolute look in Granger's eyes, or the screaming echo of those two syllables, or the horrible emptiness that consumed his mind. He swallowed and turned to the fireplace. "We will talk later about this, Granger," he said. The deadened calm of his voice had never before taken so much. His hand shook as he sprinkled the green dust into the fireplace. "The Hell's Chateau!" he shouted hoarsely, and plunged into the fire.

qp qp qp

The Dutch were amenable without being too helpful, Ginny thought as she looked at the mohawked wizard flipping rather slowly through a list. The Dutch Ministry had explained to them, through the awkward inconsistencies of the translation spell, that they could not simply Floo into that nightclub; there was some sort of entrance and exit spell that had to be done first. Whatever it was, it was taking a while, and Ginny wondered if Mitavelli was indeed still there. She was too tired, really, to get involved in hope or anticipation. What she was looking forward to was her bed, in which she hoped to stay a good twelve hours.

Cormac, sitting beside her, yawned.

Ginny shook her head. "Can't wait to get back," she muttered. She watched colors swirl abstractly in the painting on the opposite wall. "It must be three already."

Cormac nodded. "Yeah."

"Lucky you, you'll get a vacation in—how many weeks? Two?"

He stared at her. "What?"

"Your wedding, aren't you taking two weeks off for that?"

"Oh. Right, that." He scrunched his face. "Yes, I am."

She looked at him in the ensuing pause. "You all right?"

"Yeah, yeah." He still was not looking at her. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"You're a bit phased out."

"It's three in the morning. That's why."

"Mm." She turned her eyes back to the pleasantly hypnotic colors on the opposite wall. "Not worried about it, are you?"

"What?"

She snorted. "Your wedding, dummy. When George got married to Angelina, he was on pins and needles the whole month before. If he so much as saw a flower, he'd look like he'd vomit." She smiled and glanced at Cormac, but the look he gave her was brief and strained.

"George—your brother?"

Ginny nodded. "Yes." She did not often mention her family to him. It occurred to her that the opposite was not true; she knew that Cormac had a Squib older brother in accounting, who wanted nothing to do with magic; that his fiancée Francine had a host of obnoxious aunts; that he actually liked shopping with Francine, especially for clothes, and especially for Francine's four-year-old cousin.

"Fred thinks about him all the time."

Ginny stared at the colors and swallowed. "Does he tell you that?"

Cormac exhaled, the air going out through his lips. "Not really… no, but—"

The mohawked wizard at the desk looked up and said something. A moment later, the translator spell registered, and Ginny heard a disconcertingly female voice say, "The access code to the Dark Heaven is zero-three-nine-two-eight."

Ginny stood. "Do we need to say it in Dutch?"

The answer came after a moment's wait, in the same detached voice. "No, our system accommodates English."

"Thank you. Was it zero-three-nine-two-eight?"

The mohawked wizard nodded and yawned. "You are correct."

"Let's go," Cormac muttered, taking a pinch of Floo powder and tossing it into the fireplace.

They stepped into a dark room punctuated by laughs, shouts, words slurred so badly that Ginny decided to adjust the radius of the translator spell. They seemed to be at the edge of a dance floor, one that was half full at best, and had various lounge items scattered about. The only light was red, and came from a few artistically hung lights near the back, spreading dimly through the room like the scent of mort and crackle.

"Can you… feel him or something?" Cormac muttered.

Ginny nodded. If she concentrated, she could almost sense his presence, hovering in front or to her side like a wet sheet before her face.

"This way," she said, and led him through the braying crowd. His presence was getting stronger, like the smell of fish. She spotted a corridor leading away from the main room, and she headed for it.

The darkness was heavier, but she could still make out the deep red of the carpet, the cracks of doors.

"Is he in one of the rooms, do you think?" Cormac whispered.

Ginny nodded. "I can't tell which one, though," she said in a low voice. "I think… he's farther down—"

She felt a hand clasp her shoulder, and heard a man growl something unintelligible. She whirled around and stared at the shadowy hulk of a bruiser.

Cormac, who apparently had not shrunken the radius of his translator spell, pointed down the hall. "Can we just take a look?" he said. "We're just…"

Ginny quickly adjusted the translator spell, and heard the feminine voice's detached words a moment later: "—or I will strike the two of you severe blows." The bruiser proceeded to crack his knuckles.

"Look, you," Cormac said hotly, "we're not working things up, you can't—"

"We're here on the order of the Dutch Ministry of Magic," Ginny said, holding up the temporary ID they had received in the Ministry office. She took out her wand and muttered a quick Lumos. "And we have a warrant to search this place."

The bruiser squinted. Then he nodded and, with suspiciously quick movements, lumbered down the hall.

"Wait—" Ginny shouted. "_Petrificus Totalus_!"

Before the spell could take effect, a loud yell erupted from the bruiser's mouth. Ginny waited an anxious moment for the translator spell, but it did nothing; probably the word had not been finished.

"Cover me," Ginny hissed as she lowered to a crouch and hurried down the hall. There were three doors, she saw, three that Mitavelli could be hiding behind. With a quick flick of her wand she scanned them; none bore locking charms, wards, hexes, anything. They were unprepared, except for one big brute, she thought. Creeping to the first one, she took the doorknob in her left hand and pushed—but nothing happened. It was locked the Muggle way. "Bugger," she muttered. "_Alohomora_." She pushed opened the door and lifted her wand in the air with a hissed, "_Lumos_."

A mutter, and then an unintelligible squawk. "_Reveloso_," she said, ignoring the ensuing frenzy as the three women on the bed all grabbed for the sheets to cover themselves with. Nothing. She shut the door and reached for the second. It was then that the third door suddenly flung open, as though pushed by the force of an explosion. A choking dark fog billowed out, swirling at her face, into her lungs—

"_Spirabilis_!" she choked, shutting her eyes and mouth and covering her nose with her hands. The fog felt heavy, moist, but that was all, no stinging or terrible pain, no sickly hallucinations or whirling colors—yet… She ventured to open her eyes. It was so dark she could not at first see the shadow running at her. Dimly she heard someone shout behind her—Cormac, she thought, mind as though wading through a swamp—and a jet of red lashed out and embedded itself into the shadow.

Cormac said something again, and the fog receded. She felt a hand on her shoulder, but she was squinting at the face of the man on the floor. It was—unfamiliar and yet familiar, like a dream-face…

"Ginny? Are you okay, Ginny?" Cormac was shaking her, repeating her name. She felt curiously detached as she stood and stumbled to the doorway, looked inside.

The room that beckoned her was lined with shelves holding as much dust as it held books. There was a portrait between two bookcases, one that she always liked looking at during these meetings, because it was the only nice thing in this whole place, the only traitorously pleasant view… The table had people already, sitting around the tenuous surface in a circle, but she was not sure they were there. Still, she stepped forward, and caught sight of Dumbledore in his usual seat at the head.

"Ginny," he said, eyes twinkling even though he was telling her that Ron was dead, George was dead. "Ginny, are you all right?"

The dread at the pit of her stomach grew, expanded, became a drowned piano dragging her down to the bottom of the sea, every so often breaking her solitude with the aimless tinkle of its keys. She opened her mouth to cry out in despair, but black water rushed in, greedily, swirled up to her eyes, and shut them into an infinite darkness.

qp qp qp

He cursed the moment he stumbled out of the fireplace and into a knot of half-naked teenagers. He had forgotten to go back to his laboratory and get the substitute potion. Muttering darkly to himself as a few of the sweaty, flapping limps bumped into his back, he turned and groped at the mantelpiece, but there was no Floo powder. He would have to Apparate.

He pushed his way out of the throng, to the less hectic regions along the wall. The back door was occasionally visible through the screen of heads and waving arms. Ten minutes— Had it been ten minutes? He hesitated, but decided against going back to check. He could hardly conceal the absence of those two numbskulls, and it would not take him long to Apparate back and find an appropriate substitute, half a minute at most…

The crowd began roaring as he gathered his concentration for Apparition, and the voice rolled through the room a split second before he would have left:

_Give me a map_

_Marked with an 'X'_

_That'll lead me to your heart_…

Snape's head snapped up. He peered over the crowd, the tumble of hands and heads and bodies. There was a stage in the center of the room, lit by a strong white light that seemed to leech color out of everything it touched, turning all into pale, clean marble. The next verse came, and Snape pushed forward to get a closer look. The singer was slim, slight, and the voice was the same—and yet, it seemed changed, as though altered to a frequency that resonated with the despair inside him.

Suddenly the singer lifted his hands into the air and stepped back, and the words changed.

_My dreams_… _are nothing!_ He let his hands fall, his whole body fall, collapsed in a blazing heap on the stage. The music had stopped, except for a guitar, which strummed twice, lowly. _They are trodden in the mud. In the dust. And they are old_… One hand reached up, and dropped; a useless movement.

Snape felt his whole body clench. For the first time, a wave of paranoid suspicion rushed through his mind. Who was this boy? First the brat claimed to be a Muggle, when clearly he was magical; and then he was ransomed in a ploy that he, Severus Snape, had nearly fallen to. And the words, the mutating, almost obscene stage show—could it be that there was some sort of spell, some enchantment that was affecting him like this, that was coldly inspecting the ragged sweepings of his heart even before he, himself, had understood them, and was throwing what it saw before his eyes in a cold, gleaming light? He gritted his jaw, eyes fixed unwaveringly on the stage, unaware of the figure approaching from behind.

_Old dreams, rags and bone_, the boy chuckled. _Only an idiot could come up with such shit. A young, delusional idiot. And only an old fool could hold them for so long_. A trombone cranked out a low, flat note. The crowd murmured discontentedly. "Get on with it!" someone yelled, or equivalent. Snape gritted his teeth, wishing the dimwit would shut up.

The boy on the stage dropped his head back, exposing the bloodless column of his throat. _I'm old_, he whispered with a disdainful little laugh. _Why are you coming back to shake up the dust, after leaving me to rot for all these years?_

A low boo had risen from the crowd. "Give us something sexy!" a voice shouted. Snape pushed into the crowd, trying to catch a better view, but froze when he felt two thick hands grab his shoulders. He tried to wrench himself away, but his captor was too strong; he reached for his wand, but found, with a sinking feeling, that it was not there.

"Do you have the potion?" Pete growled.

Snape cursed silently. "No, not yet," he bit out. A moment later, he was staggering from the blow to his head.

"Not yet!" Pete roared.

"I think we will have to take something else instead."

It was a new voice. Snape strained his eyes to make out the figure in the sudden explosion of multicolored lights. The damnable thudding had returned, shaking his ribcage like the spasms of a slobbering werewolf. He could make out few features—a straight nose, half-closed eyes. Skin a darker tint.

"Zabini?" Snape hissed.

A flash of light illuminated the wand that was pointed at him moments before he heard the incantation.

"_Stupefy_."

qp qp qp

"…better go…"

She was aware of a pulsing headache, a dryness that coated her mouth like mold. Did she have a hangover?

"…she's waking… go…"

Her eyes fluttered open, then closed at the brutal entry of light. She squinted. There were two figures around her, at least she thought it was two separate people, and not a half-dreamt double…

"…no… I will stay."

She felt a splash of water on her face.

"Ginny? Ginny, wake up."

She frowned. That sounded like George. Was she dead then? But why was she hurting so much? She opened her eyes, lifting a hand to her forehead to keep out some of the light. The two figures sharpened, and the harsh light faded to the dull glimmering of two Lumos-lit wands.

"Ginny," said her brother.

She sat up, breath caught in her throat. For a moment she stared, disoriented, at the familiar freckled face, the shock of carrot hair, and those kindly, irascibly cheerful blue eyes, but realization came like a slap.

"Fred?" she choked.

"Ginny," he repeated, and she wondered, taking in the lines around his mouth, the coldness of his eyes, the receding line of his hair, how she could ever have thought it was George.

"You're awake," said Cormac. He was standing a bit behind her, and she turned to him with a hint of annoyance, almost missing the cup of water he was proffering.

"Thanks," Ginny muttered. She took it and drank from it greedily. "Where are we?" she said to Cormac, while wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. The room was dingy and shadowy in the dim light of the two wands, and the floor was strewn, for some reason, with sheets and pillows. "And why are you here, Fred?" The last she said accusingly.

"We're still in Amsterdam," said Fred, "in this charming little night club."

"I asked Cormac, not you," Ginny snapped.

Fred turned to the other man and tilted his head at the door. With only a slight trace of hesitation, Cormac set down the cup and went for the door.

Ginny stared. "Cormac!" she shouted, leaning to the side to keep Cormac in view from around Fred's body. "What's all this? Are you mad or what? We—" But Cormac had already shut the door.

"Ginny—"

"God _damn_—" Ginny swung her legs off the side of the bed and pushed herself up, but immediately felt as though she had disturbed a fishbowl in her head. She slumped down with a moan.

"You'll be seeing stars for a while yet," Fred muttered. She felt him patting her shoulder, reaching up to tease her hair.

"Stop it," she grumbled, and shifted backwards. Her back met the headboard. The room was even darker now that Cormac had left, as there was only the light from Fred's wand. She noticed, then, something she had noticed before: a body lying facedown against the opposite wall.

"Who's that?" she asked sharply.

"Mitavelli," said Fred.

"Is he dead?"

"No. Though he's stunned this way from Saturday." His voice was grim.

"Oh, that's good," said Ginny. She scrunched her brow and wondered if she could manage to stand. "Cormac and I really should be taking him back to the Headquarters, I don't know why he dragged you here—he's in that Order of yours, isn't he?" She felt a spool of anger uncoiling in her chest. "I only guessed it recently—I hope you're not having him keep tabs on me, Fred. You might be my brother, but that only goes so far—"

Fred reached out a hand for her hair. She pulled back. "Ginny," he said sadly.

"Stop it," she said, meaning to snap, but making a sound that was more like a whine. His hand worked down from behind her temples to the nape of her neck, and began massaging it in little circles. She let out a small breath and felt some of the tension ease out of her shoulders. They had done this to each other during the war, she and her brothers, in little nooks or corners in Grimmauld Place. She had thought in the beginning, and still thought now that she was looking back on it, that it was a bit animalistic, like what she imagined a troupe of chimps would do; but it had given them a sort of comfort that words alone could not provide.

She stirred. "I… just before I was out…" She paused.

"Mitavelli got you with the _Metus_. Do you remember the _Metus_?"

Ginny frowned and shook her head.

"Boggart dust?"

"Oh—that." She did remember—it was one of the things that cropped up here and there during the War. Supposedly it had the same effect as a boggart, only worse, and could be conjured by a spell. She frowned. What was it that she had seen before everything became black? A table, and… Dumbledore? No, she thought incredulously. Could it be?

Fred took his hand away and scooted onto the bed to her side. It occurred to Ginny that it had been months since they'd sat so close together on the same bed or couch, as Fred's visits to the Burrow were invariably short and unpleasant.

"Knut for your thoughts?" he said.

Ginny gave a humorless half laugh. "You'd never guess what my boggart would be."

"What?"

"Go on, guess." She had him now. There was the same belligerent inquisitiveness in his voice that she knew so well. She smiled half teasingly. "I'm not giving it up for free."

"Fine. Uh…" He thought a moment. "Voldemort?"

She laughed, but stopped herself, as it was not very funny. "No, I only met him once, and that was… No, it's not Tom Riddle. Good guess, though." She had almost forgotten about him by now, she thought, but did not say.

"Mm… a mummy. A banshee."

"No, no."

"A Valentine card."

She looked at him. "What?"

He was grinning. "One that goes along with—'His eyes are as green as a fresh-pickled toad. His hair is as black as a blackboard. I wish he were mine, he's really divine, the hero who conquered the Dark Lord'—"

"Stop it!" Ginny said, and hit him playfully. "I knew you and George sent that though."

"Although you wrote it," Fred said.

"Yes, I wrote it." She shifted her legs to a more comfortable position. "Is Cormac out there still?"

"Yes. Why?"

"Huh. You're quite high and mighty, aren't you? Telling your apprentices or minions or… or whoever to just go out the door and stay there." She felt the anger uncurling again. "Really, Fred, I don't know what you're playing at, and I don't want to know." Suddenly, the anger collapsed to weariness, a childish weariness that could only be assuaged by the twins' teasing, or Ron's look of long-suffering, or her father's reliable hands pulling her to his side and whispering things into her ear, things that only she and he, with his glinting spectacles, shared. None of that was here anymore, though. None.

"Tell me what it is that you saw."

Ginny sighed. "It's silly, almost. I saw the library in Grimmauld Place. It was another Order meeting. Dumbledore was there, and… well, I suppose everyone else, but it was mainly Dumbledore." And that painting, she thought.

Fred was silent. His lit wand lay on the bed between them, the end only barely touching his fingers. When the moment stretched too long, Ginny glanced at him, and saw that he was staring at her intently.

"Your greatest fear is for it to happen again," he said, and there was a strange feverishness in his voice.

"I suppose? But I don't see why I should be having that fear. Voldemort's dead, and really dead this time—"

"It's not going to be Voldemort, this next time," Fred interrupted. His hand, Ginny saw, was clenched fiercely around his wand. The small globe of light was quivering. "It's going to be someone new—it'll always be someone new. When Grindelwald died, nobody wanted to think that there could be a Voldemort. All they wanted to do was to keep Grindelwald dead. Bury the memory. And it's no different this time. All everyone wants to do is forget, forget and get on with their lives. Oh, Voldemort's dead—let's not think of it—"

"Of course they'd want to forget!" Ginny hissed fiercely. She had handfuls of the bed sheets clenched in fists. "Who wouldn't? Do you want to remember everything, all the time?" It was on the tip of her tongue to fling out those moments, those instances that were too terrible even for nightmares—hearing Ron's death and Harry's part in it; exchanging Lucius Malfoy's body with Narcissa Malfoy for their father's; watching life drain palely from George's cheeks as he died in St. Mungo's, becoming more and more a skeleton every day. They leapt into her mind like demons, brandishing pitchforks and blades, ready to tear her into pieces. She swallowed and forced them away, bit by bit, clutching at each image—sitting around that table, her mother's face as white as a hospital sheet, their father's colorless lips—and stuffing it back, shrieking, to the vaults of her mind.

Fred leaned forward slightly. "I would never want to forget," he said softly. "Not a single moment. Ever."

Ginny gave a choked laugh. "You're mad. But go ahead," she said bitterly, "you do whatever you want." She wanted those memories out. Or at least made stiff and harmless and stuck to a remote wall, like pictures at an exhibition. "We're not… disregarding the past, Fred. It's called healing. It's called moving on." She paused, searching for more words. "We are preventing the next Voldemort. It's called the law, Fred. It's called justice, equal justice for everyone. Why did Riddle become Voldemort?" She remembered suddenly words from long ago, whispered to her by a proud, dark-haired young man. "Because he thought the world was being unfair to him, that justice wasn't being served. It's because of what you're doing that he came about, Fred! If you have vigilante groups who feel they're above the law, that only makes more Voldemorts, more Dark Lords."

Fred shook his head. He reached out his hand and ran it gently through Ginny's hair. "You don't understand," he said quietly. "You don't know…"

He shifted his legs off the bed, and Ginny's eyes fell on his wand and the odd twisting motion he made at the handle. She felt blood drain from her face.

"Fred—"

He turned around, a look of pain on his face. "George made me promise to take care of you," he said. "Don't worry. It never hurts."

She felt her pockets—her wand was gone. In a flash, she had flung herself off the bed and was dashing, stumbling, for the door. She had barely left the bed when she felt herself plucked up by her brother's magic and sent sprawling back on the bed.

"Just tell me," she said with gritted teeth. "How many times have you done this?"

"I would never hurt you, Ginny," Fred said, and pointed his wand. "_Obliviate_."


	6. The Ice Melts

**Chapter 6: The Ice Melts **

As far as cells went, this one was not too shabby. It was more stifling than the ones in Nott Manor, but it was an improvement to the feeling of dingy bureaucracy that clung to the Ministry holding cells. Perhaps it was due to the irritation and impatience that always attended him during his stay in the Ministry cells; facing the prudishly paranoid Wizengamot gave him about as much pleasure as teaching a horde of first-years. Anything, though, was preferable to Malfoy Manor. His body clenched at the memory. How many times had he been led, after hours of dark waiting, to a curtained room, where first a handsome monster, and then a skeletal beast, had awaited him with a lascivious smile?

If there was anyone who might be a better connoisseur of dungeons, Snape thought, it would be Potter. Potter had not had the pleasure of being crammed into a Ministry holding cell, but he had experienced, in addition to Malfoy Manor and Nott Manor, the basement of Goyle's ghoulish house, and a stint in the Rookwood ancestral home in Russia. Potter. The-Boy-Who-Lived, The-Man-Who-Defeated-You-Know-Who, the Missing-Savior.

Snape shut his eyes and let the pain radiate through his body. If Granger was somehow correct, if the impossible became incredible and then inevitably true, then he would have no choice but to think, to remember— But he had moved on, he reminded himself with an ironic smile. Here he was, locked in a dungeon, not thinking of his escape, not calculating how he should outwit Zabini, but contemplating Harry Potter. His lover, with whom he had never even consummated anything more than a sweaty-handed kiss, whose memory he had clung to, drawn strength from, and been betrayed by.

He heard their approach a long while before they came. Footsteps, the crash of doors. He dusted his robes and stood in the darkest shadow as he waited.

Two figures appeared on the other side of the bars. "There he is," said Pete. "Severus Snape."

One of them muttered something—Snape strained his ears; it sounded like a normal unlocking charm—and two of the bars slowly lowered to the ground.

"You're coming with us," Pete growled, stepping forward with a bag in his hand. Snape closed his eyes and remained obstinately still as the thug tossed the rough sack over his head. Another muttered spell, and he felt thorny ropes draw his wrists together in a painful twist.

"This way," Pete said, and Snape let himself out, guided by a bearish grip on his shoulder.

They were silent during the entire trip, which suited Snape well, as he was listening and remembering as keenly as he could. The lower part of the manor sounded mostly empty. After leaving the dankness of the dungeons, they had gone down a long, winding corridor, which led into an exceptionally large room, judging from the sound of their echoing footsteps. Then they climbed up several flights of stairs—or rather, the two thugs climbed, and he was carried, to his muted embarrassment, in one of the thug's arms; Pete had grunted something about his being too slow.

They finally stopped after twisting down a few more corridors. Snape heard the sound of a door opening, and felt himself pushed inside.

"Professor Snape," he heard Zabini say.

A moment later, the sack was removed, and he found himself in a large, windowless room covered with carpets. The floor had a large green carpet with designs of moving dragons, and intricate Persian rugs hung from the walls. Zabini stood facing him, dressed in the most expensive robes Snape had seen since the last Death Eater meeting. His skin looked even darker than Snape remembered in the flickering magical oil lamps that hung from the ceiling.

"Zabini," Snape said, inclining his head slightly. The rope's bristles dug into his wrists. "An unexpected… pleasure."

Zabini smiled. There was too much teeth in it, Snape thought, keeping his back straight and eyes disdainfully narrowed.

"I'd never thought I'd see you in such a position, Professor." He waved a hand, and Snape turned his head to see Pete leave the room. They were alone except for an exceptionally large black person standing in the corner. Snape wondered briefly and irritably where Zabini found all these half-giants for his employment.

"Likewise, Zabini."

"And I never thought I'd find myself in such a position," Zabini said. The smile spread. He looked like a Gryffindor first-year in Zonko's for the first time, Snape thought. Only there was too much malice, too much a sense of knowing. Snape felt a trickle of dread. What was it that Zabini knew or had? Surely, the ice could not have been melted, and even if it had, Jonathan—Potter—whoever he was, damn it—would be too powerful to be held under Zabini's sway. Much too powerful by far… Unless Frost—Potter—had awakened in a half-dead state… But even then—even then—

Zabini was continuing. "It was always Dumbledore or Voldemort, Voldemort or Dumbledore. Who could see that it would be I, Zabini, who would end up on top?"

"Indeed?" Snape said, sneering. "I'm afraid I do not see in what way you are 'on top.'"

Zabini gave him a contemptuous look. It was a rather new expression, Snape thought; the boy had always been aloof rather than openly arrogant. That role had gone to Malfoy. "There's much you don't know, Snape, that the Ministry doesn't know." He paused and smiled. "How much capital am I worth, do you think?"

"No idea," Snape said blandly.

"Nearly one billion Galleons. Do you know how much the Malfoy estate was worth? The Black estate?"

"No."

"The Blacks were worth five-hundred million Galleons. And the Malfoys, after Narcissa Malfoy's inheritance, were worth four-hundred million." He was still smiling. "There's fifty-two Wizengamot members. Malfoy bought four, five of them. With my money, I can buy nine. And with my, ah, resources, I can control eleven. Maybe twelve. That's a fifth of the Ministry right there."

"Can, or have," Snape said.

Zabini's eyelids fell halfway in a sort of contented disdain. "I'm not telling you, Professor," he purred. With that smile, thought Snape, he looked like Filch's cat when it had gorged itself on some miserable rat or toad.

"Anyway, to business," said Zabini. He stepped back and sat in his chair, then motioned at the hulk in the corner. Wordlessly, the half-giant moved a massive chair to behind Snape.

"Thank you," Snape said, taking his seat.

"I'm sorry for my methods," said Zabini. "I'm afraid I was rather rude, but after you've worked for a while in my trade, you lose track of your manners."

Snape curled his lips. "Evidently."

Zabini's mouth twitched, and the lines on his face hardened. Snape wondered if the boy had ever been on the receiving end of his sarcasm. Probably not, he thought with equal parts disdain and caution. "Although I can't say you've been very polite either. Refusing to hold up your end of a Potions deal… That's simply not the behavior of a respected Potions master."

"It was due to your messenger's stupidity that such a delay took place," Snape said coldly. "Unless your minions removed it, I actually have the potion with me. I had intended to give it to your agent last night, but…" He let his lips pull back in a sneer. "Other events took place."

"It's not important anymore," said Zabini, "and I certainly don't mind being charitable to an old teacher who needs the work."

He smiled pointedly. Snape returned it with a bored look. Really, he wondered nastily, did Zabini think so highly of himself as to expect that remark to sting?

"I have a commission for you, Snape," said Zabini. "I think you can guess what it is."

"To make you a melting potion?" Snape said flatly.

"Not any melting potion, Professor. You'll be proud of the research I did. I want you to make the Pyrane Potion. I'm sure you know it, Professor? Melts ice like diamond cutting class, dismantles all spells that freeze or stiffen?"

"Perhaps."

Zabini smiled. "You're not the only Potions master I can enlist, Professor Snape." He let the suggestion hang in the air. Snape remained unmoving. "But I would like to ask you, because I feel that I know so much about you." He smiled again.

Snape's gaze shifted from where it rested, bored, on a winding tapestry, to Zabini's face. "I'm afraid you don't, Zabini."

"But I do. I know all about you and Jonathan Frost."

It was all he could do not to burst out with a yell. Snape swallowed hard, biting the inside of his mouth so fiercely that he tasted blood, and hoped nothing showed on his face. How could Zabini have known? But there were quite a few who must have guessed; back then he had not kept his sorrow a secret. But did Zabini know who it was in the ice—?

"And I know what you did to Terrance Lestrange."

Snape stared. He held himself, feeling his heart in his throat, but Zabini was impatient and went on. "Do you know whose old dormitory I had at Hogwarts?"

"No."

"Yours." He paused and let that white-toothed grin spread over his face. "You should be careful whose body you burn in the fireplace."

"I don't know what you're talking about, Zabini," Snape bit out.

"My mother was a clairvoyant," Zabini continued, "and she always had an affinity with ghosts, spirits, the like. She predicted that Voldemort would not triumph in the end, although it was always very, very close…" He straightened. "I have a bit of that gift myself. And I got quite an earful from someone who had no reason not to tell me every single, terrible detail."

"If you've begun to put faith in disembodied voices, I would advise you to go to St. Mungo's."

The smile turned nasty. "I know everything about you, Snape. I know what Lestrange and Malfoy did to you in your second year. I know how you rose so quickly through Voldemort's ranks when you joined in the middle of your seventh year." Zabini stepped closer, and deliberately put a finger on Snape's cheek. Snape clenched his jaw, kept his eyes trained forward.

A moment later, Zabini let his hand drop. He tilted his head. "You're not to my taste, Snape. You never were. A bit on the greasy side, you know. Too old, too… asexual. Like a polyp, or an old, old bat." Zabini chuckled. "You know, one thing that I thought Terrance Lestrange got wrong was that he promised that you would wear a ring. A plain, gray ring. You didn't while I was at school, but now I see that his prediction has come true…"

Snape watched Zabini circle out of his field of vision. A moment later, he felt hands slowly open his fists and work the ring around his middle finger. He shut his eyes as he felt the ring go past the first joint, then the second, and finally vanish.

"Hmm," said Zabini, walking back into view. "Plain. The material isn't so bad. But still, it's rather cheap. I would say… Twenty galleons. Maybe twenty-five. No more than thirty, though." He tossed it into the air and caught it. "You're awfully quiet, Snape."

Snape let the sneer come to his face at last. "Your antics don't interest me, Zabini." He shut his eyes again as though weary and bored. "You were always something of a, shall we say, drama queen."

There was a pause. "Ayo," Zabini snapped. "I think Professor Snape requires our product now."

Snape opened his eyes to the sight of the thug handing Zabini a small paper packet. Zabini opened it, and Snape caught sight of something white inside.

"I assure you that you will enjoy this, Professor Snape," said Zabini. He took out his wand and pointed it at Snape's mouth. "_Coerceo_."

Snape found his mouth wrenched irresistibly shut; he could only breathe with his nose. Zabini had taken out a small tube, about the length of his finger, and was approaching. Snape backed away and abruptly lashed out his foot at the white powder in Zabini's hand. Before his foot could make contact, he felt the thug grab him like a sack and lift him easily into the air.

"_Petrificus Totalus_," Zabini said. Snape felt his legs snap into place, his arms wrenching painfully straight behind his back. "Here you go," Zabini said, putting the tube up to Snape's nose. "Much better than mort, I promise you that…"

Snape waited until Zabini had lifted the white powder to his face, and blew out sharply with his nose. Some of the powder scattered onto the ground.

"You…!" Zabini stepped back and nodded his head. The next moment, Snape was screaming silently with pain from his contorted muscles; the thug had landed a punch on his solar plexus, but he could do nothing but stay motionless.

"Again," Zabini snapped.

Snape screamed again in his head, seeing stars swarm across his vision. It was the Death-Eater meetings all over again, he thought dimly, or those times when Dumbledore, with his information, had foiled some critical plot, and Voldemort had decided that the usual rape was not enough, that a little bedroom torture was in order…

When the stars cleared, a strange feeling was washing over his body. He felt calm. He was still aware of the flickering of firelight, the faces flashing in front of him, but he felt as though he were alone in a great ocean of mist, walking in the air among gray mountain peaks. Someone else was in this endless sea, someone familiar…

"…take him…"

The other person was becoming brighter and brighter, illuminated by the stars, as stone floors and walls lurched past his eyes. He felt himself being carried, a shoulder under each arm, as a mild wind winded past his face. There was music on the air, tender music…

"…saw to it… hours…"

The brilliance of the mist had faded into darkness. The person at the end was no longer obscured. He could see him now, his face, the small, sad, waiting smile…

The vision disappeared as he felt himself collapse onto cold stone. For an instant his mind was focused on the pain in his wrists, the bruises in his ribs and legs. He stared ahead. He had lost the person—again, again… Ah, it would be best to be surrounded by the all-forgiving, all-erasing clouds… His eyes, uncomprehending, blinked at the crudely drawn pentagram on the ground, before the mist returned and gently crowded out all thought.

qp qp qp

Sparks were beginning to shoot out of Ginny's wand. It was eleven in the morning, and the Minister was still nowhere to be found.

"These meetings usually don't take this long, you said?" Ginny demanded again. She clenched her fist around her wand, and a jet of sparks sprayed over Jack Demme, who set down his cup of coffee and brushed them off.

Scrimgeour's secretary nodded quickly, her eye constantly on Ginny's wand. "They usually end at about ten or a quarter past. Sometimes there's something important, but nothing like that was on the agenda for today's meeting."

Ginny glanced again at Hermione, who was sitting in a chair adjacent to Demme. Hermione only shrugged and looked again, tiredly, at the clock on the wall.

"Both McLaggen and the Minister," said Jack Demme. "Although with McLaggen I'm not surprised."

"Yeah, he's late even for our Friday get-togethers," Ginny muttered. "If he's capable of being late for free booze, he's liable of being late for anything." She paused; something was niggling her mind, but she could not put her finger on it. "Maybe he and the Minister are having tea."

"Maybe the Minister and Fred are having tea," Hermione murmured.

The bell on the secretary's desk rang. The secretary quickly pressed it, and words materialized on the side of the bell. "I assume you lot are expecting Auror McLaggen?" she said.

"Yes," Ginny said. "Finally."

The door opened and Cormac hurried in. "Sorry, I overslept," he said. "Hey Boss, Ginny, Madam Granger-Pickering."

"Did you see the Minister?" Ginny asked.

Cormac blinked. "Yeah," he said nonchalantly. "I think he was right behind me."

The bell rang again, but before the secretary could reach it, the door swung open, and Rufus Scrimgeor and two others marched in.

"Wha—" Ginny burst out, but held herself in check.

Hermione stood up, as did Jack Demme. "Good morning, Rufus," she said evenly. "Good morning, Fred."

Fred inclined his head. "Good morning Hermione, Jack."

The Minister took off his coat, and the third person in the room, a rather ratty little man in Ginny's opinion, hurried to take it and hang it on the peg.

"How's Hogwarts?" Hermione asked genially.

"Oh, it's going along swimmingly," Fred replied. "I think the Marauder's Map is circulating Gryffindor Tower again, you don't know what headaches it's giving us…"

"Belinda, what do I have this afternoon?" the Minister interrupted.

"A meeting with the Swedish Minister at 3:00, and dinner with the International Quidditch Club at 7:00."

"Right," Scrimgeour said. He opened the door to his office. "Please come in, everyone. Belinda, if anyone from the Prophet comes, show them out."

"Yes, sir."

The Minister's office was rather bare, with a few portraits interspersed with bulletin boards covered with newspaper clippings. It reminded Ginny rather strongly of the Auror Office. There was an empty portrait of Albus Dumbledore directly behind the Minister's desk, and right next to it, the front page of the _Daily Prophet_ with big letters: HE-WHO-MUST-NOT-BE-NAMED DEFEATED & DEAD.

The ratty-looking man, who was the last one to enter, shut the door with excessive care. They were arrayed like opposing Quidditch teams, Ginny thought dryly. She and Hermione were firmly ensconced on one side, with Jack Demme next to her, about midway down the office. Ginny frowned at Cormac, wondering briefly and blankly why he had decided to stand so close to Fred. Her brother was leaning against the wall in one corner, next to the ratty-looking man, and Ginny felt a brief burst of irritability at the placid look on his face.

"Minister," Jack Demme said, as Scrimgeour sat down heavily and began flipping through the parchment piled on his desk, "we were wondering if there was a reason why you specifically denied us a search warrant for the Zabini manor."

Besides that Zabini has connections with a fifth of the Wizengamot, Ginny thought darkly.

Scrimgeour cleared his throat and directed his attention at Hermione. "Granger-Pickering," he said, "may I ask, when are you expecting?"

Ginny stared. She glanced at Hermione and saw her brows draw together in a frown, before they raised, slowly, in an expression that Ginny knew to be grim realization. "Two days, but any time now, really."

There was a pause. Ginny bit her tongue. What was going on? She stole a look at Jack Demme, who had a puzzled frown on his face, and at Cormac, who had a strangely apprehensive look on his.

"I've been thinking, Granger…" He trailed off momentarily. "Why don't you begin your maternity leave now? Too much stress can't be good for the baby. You could be due at any moment, and it might be better if you're somewhere else. I hope you don't take me wrong on this."

Hermione smiled thinly. "You've made yourself very clear, Rufus. However, I don't see the necessity in maternity leave. At least, not until little Harry is born."

Scrimgeour's face had an odd expression on it. "It's for your own good, Granger."

Hermione turned her head. She was staring at Fred now, and seemed to be teetering on the verge of saying something. Ginny frowned, feeling that she was in the middle of a match whose rules she could not understand, but which was rapidly sliding in a direction she did not like. She glanced at Fred, who was gazing straight ahead. When she looked back, Hermione had turned back to the Minister, with that same, grim look on her face.

"I beg to disagree, Rufus," she said, both her hands resting on top of her belly.

"Then, you leave me with no choice." The Minister stood and crossed his arms over his chest. "I hate to do this, Granger, but I'm afraid I must ask you to resign."

Ginny jerked forward. "What!"

"May I ask what the reason is, Minister?" Hermione said calmly.

"Your handling of the matter related to this thing of power was unacceptable," Scrimgeour growled. "You grossly miscalculated the necessary security measures, and as a result, the thing of power is now in the hands of a very dangerous drug ring leader."

"Excuse me, sir, but that's rubbish!" Ginny said heatedly. "Hermione was operating on the intelligence she had, and furthermore, I'm quite sure she ran the whole thing through with you." She turned to Hermione, but Hermione was holding the Minister's gaze.

"Auror Weasley, please," Jack Demme said, but for the first time in Ginny's memory, his voice sounded strained.

"Very well," said Hermione. "And who is my replacement? Could it be"—she turned her head—"Professor Weasley?"

Ginny felt the blood drain out of her face.

"Yes," Scrimgeour said gruffly, "Professor Weasley will be taking over the Department of Mysteries."

It was all Ginny could do not to curse her brother into next week. She turned furiously to Jack Demme, but he had his poker face on. Her gaze darted to Cormac next, but the moment she caught his eyes, he turned away, as though, inexplicably, guilty.

"At this point, it doesn't quite matter."

Ginny snapped her attention back to Hermione.

"The important thing right now is not to let the White Knight gain access to the thing of power, " Hermione went on, her eyes still on Fred, "and if it takes an old name to do it…" She paused, and suddenly flinched, her hands fluttering down to her belly.

Ginny lunged forward, but Hermione was already straightening and shaking her head. "I'm all right really, I'm all right…"

"Is it—time?" Jack Demme said anxiously.

Hermione shook her head. "No…" She opened her eyes and addressed the Minister. "I'll prepare my office, then."

Scrimgeour grunted. "Carry on, Granger."

"The press release will be maternity leave—for now," said Fred.

Ginny bit her lip hard. She turned her back to him, certain that if she saw her brother's infuriating mug, she would not be able to resist turning him into a cockroach. Her hands were shaking as she helped Hermione to the door.

"I'm fine, Ginny—you should stay," Hermione said, gently pushing Ginny away.

"You sure?" Ginny demanded. Her voice sounded harsh to her own ears.

"You had better stay," Hermione muttered. The implications hit Ginny a moment later—stay and listen, stay and watch. She stood aside. Hermione pushed open the door, and then shut it behind her.

A moment later, Ginny felt someone at her side.

"'scuse me," the ratty man muttered, and slipped out the door.

Ginny stared, first at the Minister, who was shifting the parchment on his desk, and then at Fred. "Is he following her?" she blurted out incredulously.

She felt as though she were caught in some horrible joke. It was too absurdly impossible to be true. Feeling like a sleepwalker, Ginny returned to the side of the room. Her heart was pounding rapidly, and her legs felt unsteady, as though a rug had been yanked from under her feet.

"Minister Scrimgeour," said Jack Demme, a long moment later, "if I may return to the original matter at hand—"

"No, you may not have a search warrant to the Zabini Manor," Scrimgeour interrupted.

Ginny watched uncomfortably as her boss hesitated. She glanced up at Cormac, but he was staring at the opposite wall.

"Minister Scrimgeour, I understand that… certain members of the Wizengamot might be highly opposed to our activity," Jack Demme said, "but the Minister of Magic has the ability to make the final decision in emergency situations, and I believe this qualifies."

"Demme, you heard me," Scrimgeour said. "No warrant."

There was a very heavy silence. "Very well, sir. I see." Jack Demme stood. He turned to Fred Weasley, and Ginny thought her superior was going to say something. Instead, he only shrugged on his coat, and left.

Ginny crossed her arms and leaned against the wall. The Minister looked up and frowned.

"Auror Weasley, you are dismissed," he said.

She turned to each of them in turn: Scrimgeour's scarred and half-turned face, Cormac's stony fascination with the opposite wall, and Fred's tranquil look of patience. The connections flickered in place, and she gave a humorless laugh.

"I never knew you and my brother were such chums, Cormac, Minister Scrimgeour," she said. "Good job, Fred. Very good job."

She noticed him put his hand into his robe, but before she could say anything, Cormac snapped into action and reached for her arm.

"C'mon," he said, sounding almost anxious, "we've stuff to do in the Auror Office—"

"Please, do not touch me!" she spat. There were tears, tears of anger, stinging the back of her eyes. She bit them back with even greater fury, feeling a hot whirlwind of rage at the betrayals, one after another, at the injustice—against Hermione, how could he do such a thing to Hermione!—and, though she only barely knew it, at a strange frustration, a feeling that her mind was chasing itself around and around for some lacuna that would not relent its presence.

"Please, Auror Weasley, you are dismissed," Scrimgeour said, more sharply this time.

"I think, sir, that you should take down that portrait of Albus Dumbledore," she said with as much poise as she could muster. She felt her shaking. "I think he would be most displeased."

"Quite the contrary," Fred murmured, but Ginny had already slammed the door, and was storming past the perplexed secretary.

The walk to the Department of Mysteries office calmed her enough for her to realize what Hermione had meant. The most important thing was to retrieve the ice from the White Knight, and Hermione was right—it didn't matter how. Still, she could not believe… And why did the Minister refuse the search warrant? Unless Fred wanted the Order to find it, _his_ Order—

She felt engulfed by another surge of fury, and was aware of the others in the hallway jerking back as her wand spat out a few red sparks.

She shoved open Hermione's door after a cursory knock. "Hermione!" she called.

The office was bare and empty already. Ginny stepped inside, feeling bereft and bewildered as she looked at the unadorned walls and ceiling. It was so easy to feel that there had never been anyone here, that she and Hermione had not shared tea and biscuits in this room on so many occasions, that the far section of the wall had not been covered with photographs of all of them in their Hogwarts days.

She turned slowly and was about to leave when a silver shape darted about her feet: an otter. Ginny's heart skipped a beat. With only a moment's hesitation, she glanced outside, then shut the door and bent close to the shimmering Patronus.

qp qp qp

"Hey! You awake in there?"

Snape sat up, shivering. He could make out little in the darkness. A moment later, Pete had pulled him roughly to his feet, and was leading him through the dungeon.

"Today's the day for you to show your stuff," said Pete. "We've set up a nice, little potions place for you upstairs. Excited?"

Snape grunted. The ropes still dug at his wrists. He could barely feel his fingers, or his feet. He shuddered. If Pete were not hoisting him up, he was certain he would fall.

The thug bent his head close, and Snape could feel Pete's hot breath on his ear. "Boss says that if you're good, you get another hit. Now aren't you excited?"

Snape swallowed. "No, thank you," he said roughly.

Pete chuckled, and tightened his grip.

They had reached the stairs that led out of the dungeons, and Snape squinted as light from the first window stabbed into his eyes and dissolved the world into one unbearable glare. He could feel a headache beginning somewhere in front of his temples. This was worse than any hangover, any sort of mort backlash. Aftermath of the Cruciatus was a good comparison, actually.

"Here it is," Pete said. He pulled aside a thick, dusty curtain, and jabbed his wand at the row of torches lining the wall. "All yours."

The room was dark, cavernous. Snape took a few steps forward unsteadily. There was a counter in the center of the room, and next to it were two fires, one burning under a pewter cauldron, and the other under a small, delicate basin: a platinum cauldron.

"Your ingredients are in there," Pete said, pointing at a bin next to the counter. "I'll be around, watching you."

Snape felt the ropes loosen and fall from his wrists. He massaged them, and approached the counter with uneven steps. "Is this all?"

"I require a wand to control the fire," said Snape.

Pete pointed again, and Snape saw a bucket of water with a ladle, and a pile of pine logs. "You've got those."

Snape sneered and crossed his arms over his chest. The muscles in his shoulder were sore. "I'm afraid these would not be sufficient even for a first-year potion."

Pete grunted. "That's all you're going to have."

"Bring me Zabini. This is ridiculous."

Pete gave him an unfriendly grin. "You don't need to change the fires. Boss told me. They're charmed, you don't need to fuss about them. Now get to it, or I'll knock you one."

Snape curled his lips in a sneer, but felt too tired to dredge out a retort. Zabini was right; the Pyrane Potion needed only one temperature. The true subtlety lay in the timing of the myrrh. It was not a simple potion, but not difficult either: nothing he could not have brewed even on those worst of mornings, after the Cruciatus had racked his body for an eternity. But he was tired, drained, in a way that pushed deeper than numbed nerves of the body.

He forced himself to remember the effects of crackle. Detachment of magic from overuse, usually after six months. A loss of judgment, hallucinations, a feeling of mild pleasure. Those, he thought with a humorless smile, he now knew only too well. Addiction after as few as three hits. He had taken two already. Lethargy, listlessness. That, too, he was aware of only too acutely.

He did not know if anyone knew of his whereabouts, although Granger might guess. But he was unsure if she knew he was missing. If he had disappeared, died, a month ago, it would not have been like a cactus shriveling in the middle of the desert. He supposed his corpse would have had to wait for the landlady's monthly visit to be discovered. They were probably planning to kill him after melting the ice, he thought. He could not help wondering if they planned to give him one more hit before that, if they would cut his throat while he was groping through the mists, stumbling towards that face, that person…

He pulled back his mind, frightened, almost, of the directions it was going. He had always prided himself on his self control, but this—this was different. His estimation had changed the moment the mists parted and he was staring at the stone floor; crackle was a terrible, cunning, incredible drug. He wondered who had drawn the pentagram on the floor. His first thought was Niles, but would he? Not to say if he could. Would he, for Snape?

The potion was near completion. He wondered before he could help himself if they would give him another hit for finishing it. Angrily, he clenched his jaw. Damn him for being so weak! Was it because of whom he saw in the mist? He could also be in the ice, Snape reminded himself, and felt a shudder.

Pete snorted. Snape looked up through the curtain of his hair. The thug's head was nodding, almost as though he were about to fall asleep. Snape paused; the potion was done. A moment later, he heard a thump, and Pete was a heap on the floor, and snoring loudly.

The curtain pulled back, and Ginny Weasley dashed in. "Professor," she said in a low, hurried voice. "Are you all right?"

"Weasley," Snape barked and stopped blankly. Someone else came in, a somewhat weedy-looking young man in Muggle garb with thin spectacles. The moment he entered, he lifted his wrist to his lips and muttered,

"We've got him. Professor Snape, that is."

Snape frowned. The potion was still bubbling; it would be ruined if he waited any longer. Swiftly, he took one of the vials from the counter, tipped the cauldron with his rod, and poured out the reddish gold liquid.

"What's that?" Weasley asked.

"Pyrane Potion," said Snape, quickly screwing on the cap. "A melting potion, N.E.W.T.S. level, although I don't believe you ever learned it. Is this an Auror operation?" He looked from Weasley to the man, who was peering outside at the corridor.

"No," Weasley said with surprising rancor. "I'm going solo with Aaron. Professor, this is Aaron Skonser, one of Hermione's magicists."

The man held out a hand. "Pleased to meet you, Professor."

Snape frowned and gave the man a very cursory handshake. "Miss Weasley, I hope I am wrong, but are you infiltrating Zabini Manor alone?"

"I've Aaron," Weasley replied with typical Gryffindor defiance. "The Minister refused to give us a search warrant. And my brother has taken over the Ministry."

"From your flippancy, I presume you're being serious, Miss Weasley."

"Yes, I am. Hermione's been forced to take maternity leave, and Fred's replaced her."

"The fool," Snape muttered. "No offense, Miss Weasley."

"None taken," she said. "Anyway, Hermione told me that I might find you here. She also said the ice would be here, but we can't seem to find it."

"Yes, it's hidden with the manor's own magic," the man, Skonser, interrupted with an excited, somewhat annoying voice. "The trolleriometer begins to spin around once we get to where it's pointing. Not even the Fidelius Charm could do that."

"It could not be the Fidelius," said Snape. "Zabini does not have the skill or ability." Although Zabini might control someone who does, he thought grimly.

"Did you see him?" Ginny said with surprise.

Snape nodded. He clenched his hands into fists, and the absence around his finger felt even more acute.

"We'll take him out," Skonser whispered, again to his wrist.

"He's got a communication thing that works with Hermione," Ginny said in a low voice. "One of the top-secret inventions they have at the Department of Mysteries."

"Not technically," Skonser said. "Dr. Granger had us all patent it in our own name and give the Ministry minimal access rights. So this is technically hers and mine." He paused. "Right, we'll be out," he muttered.

"I also hope that Granger did not encourage you two to do this… solo mission," Snape said coldly.

"Fred wasn't willing to tell any of us when he was going to make his move," Ginny said grimly. "Hermione said he might want to wait for Zabini to melt the ice and get the ice person's allegiance before he exploded on the scene with that bloody Order of his."

"Indeed," Snape said. He wondered, and decided that Granger had not confided her suspicions of the person's identity to any of the two.

Skonser was in a crouch, peering down either direction of the corridor. "Hermione also said that Zabini might try the same with you," Weasley said quietly after casting a slew of anti-detection charms on the two of them. "Control you with crackle, I mean."

Snape suppressed a shiver. Three was the minimum for addiction; he already had two. And at the dosage and frequency that he was going at… The image of the mists, the heavenly feeling of being free at last, abruptly returned to him, and he felt a disturbing itch unfurl in his body, a jarring discontent and dissatisfaction— He quashed it, and belatedly processed the implication of Weasley's words: the same with him. The same—as the man in the ice, Jonathan? He cursed himself for not thinking about it before as he should have. That had to be it; Zabini needed a way to control Jonathan—Potter—and it would was with crackle. Potter—Jonathan, had a strong will, but that was nothing to the tide-like insistence of the mists…

"All clear," Skonser whispered.

They crept down the corridor. It occurred to Snape that the Zabini Manor was peculiarly empty and bare. Malfoy Manor had been decorated to the gills with portraits, gargoyle statues, Latin inscriptions. Besides Pete and the other thug, Snape had not seen anyone here, not even a house-elf.

They turned a corner and stopped short; a few paces away, standing at one of the tall, glassless windows, was Niles.

"_Attono_," Weasley whispered. A jet of red slammed into the boy's chest, and he crumpled to the ground. "Professor—"

"We're taking him," Snape said. He could feel Weasley and Skonser looking at him as he stepped forward and, with more effort than he had expected, pulled the boy to a sitting position. It was a stupid, useless movement. "I would imagine that neither of you has an extra wand."

Weasley shook her head. "Do you know him?"

"Yes, and I think he may be very important," Snape said, hoping she would leave it at that.

Niles stirred, and made a small moan.

Weasley frowned. "Is he immune to flash stunners, or something? Let me try again—"

"No," Snape hissed. He turned to Skonser. "Hand me your wand. Now, you— Please."

"Do it, Aaron."

"Thank you," Snape said shortly. It felt good to have a wand in his hand again. He maneuvered so that he was facing the boy, with his back to the others. He wished with a spark of annoyance that they would look somewhere else, although he no more than felt the weight of their gaze. "_Rennervate_," he muttered.

Niles groaned and his eyes half-opened. His lips parted, and Snape thought it fortunate that the idiot boy had a shirt on, for once.

"Niles," Snape snapped. He tried again, feeling a flush come to his face. "Wake up, Niles."

He felt the boy's shoulders stiffen under his hand. "Le' go of me," the boy whispered, "I'm armed, I swear I am—"

"Shut up," Snape cut in. He paused, foundered for words as the boy blinked out the light. "I'm surprised your head is still on your shoulders, what with that dolt's way with the knife."

"What've you got against Pete?" Niles demanded, eyes narrowing and flickering up at the two others. "You get out, all of you, or I'll holler! I'll fucking scream—"

"Silence!" Snape hissed. He tightened his grip, wishing to shake some sense into the boy's head—although it was not idiocy of Longbottom's sort, but a different kind of stupidity, a desperation in which he could discern a dark glass. "Tell me, Niles, how is your neck? Did they at least heal it properly? Go on, let me see it."

Niles pulled back. "No—"

"He would have killed you, then and there. How many years have they been whoring you out? How many tricks have you had? Some were placed pretty high, I would imagine."

Niles was looking away. His hair, as black as Snape's own, was like a curtain over his face.

"You hate this—I know you do." He lowered his voice until it was only a harsh whisper, wishing at the back of his mind that he did not need to say this in front of Weasley and the stranger with her. "I have been in your place. Believe me in this. I promise, if you come with me, you will never have to come back."

The boy's face was as pale as the dead. "I can't," he mumbled, "he's bound me to him, it's magic, you can't do anything about it—"

"Zabini?" Snape spat. "There are greater wizards by far. I am one of them. So are these before you. If you do not follow us in this one chance, then no one will be able to help you. And you will be chained to him—forever."

Snape leaned back and waited, feeling more uncertain than he would have liked to admit. The boy swallowed. He bent forward, as though to get to his feet, but Snape pushed him back to the ground.

"Well?"

"Yes, you git," the boy muttered. "You're not giving me much of a choice. I'm going."

"With us?" Weasley cut in.

He looked up sullenly. "Yeah."

"Good," said Snape. "_Vinculum. Silencio. Levitus_. Lead the way, Weasley."

Weasley and Skonser shared a glance. "Actually, Aaron and I were thinking that maybe you can figure it out," Weasley said. She pointed at the wall facing the window. "That's where the ice is."

Snape whirled around. "Here."

"The trolleriometer points at it and then wobbles," Skonser explained. "And there aren't any glamour charms, concealment spells, anything that we could detect."

Snape frowned. He turned to the boy, who was kicking the air with a scowl on his face. "Perhaps…" Snape tilted his head at the wall. The boy stilled. "_Finite incantatem silencio, levitus_," he intoned. The boy dropped out of the air and nearly fell in a heap.

"Dawdling around a secret entrance," Snape said dryly. "How very… Gryffindor." He noticed Weasley giving him a long suffering look.

"I could feel something," the boy muttered, "'s all. I wouldn't have gone in, Pete told me not to try opening any doors."

"What Pete tells you doesn't matter anymore," Snape said, with an almost sadistic pleasure. "Open it, if you can, Niles."

The boy looked at Weasley, and then Skonser. Both of them nodded in encouragement, although Snape could still see a good deal of skepticism on Weasley's face. Just as well—he wondered if his brain was somehow addled by the crackle to be scooping the boy up like this.

"Make sure no one comes," the boy muttered. His wrists still bound by ropes, he bent forward, put his head to the wall, and stood motionless. Snape crossed his arms, waiting. He saw but ignored Skonser and Weasley exchange a puzzled glance. These sorts of entrances were rare, but he had encountered a few in Malfoy Manor: hidden doors that were keyed to thoughts.

Niles stood back. "There," he said. "I've done it."

They could hear the sound of stone grinding on stone. A moment later, a panel of the wall began to rise, revealing at first a crack of darkness that yawned upwards like a gaping mouth.

"_Protego physicalis_," said Weasley, and a shield of blue darted across the expanding entrance.

Snape stepped forward and bent his head towards Niles. "What did you think of?"

The boy was silent long enough that Snape thought he would receive no reply, but a few moments later, by the time the darkness had reached waist height, he turned and said, "Zodiac. The opposite animal, you know?"

"Ah," Snape said, and stepped back just as the wall thudded to a halt. It had stopped at shoulder height. He bent slightly, as Weasley inched forward cautiously. The inside was dark.

"I don't feel any warding spells," said Weasley. "It should be all right." She glanced back. "I'll go in first. Professor, you cover me."

Snape nodded. Weasley ended the shielding spell and slipped inside. He heard her whisper a Lumos and saw the pale, ghostly reflection of ice. "It's safe, I think," he heard her whisper.

"Go in," Snape said. The boy slipped in, and Skonser followed, jabbering quietly at his wrist. Snape turned, glanced down both ways of the empty corridor, and stepped into the darkness.

"It's this," Weasley whispered excitedly. "There're only a few level three hexes, and I've gotten rid of those already. I guess he was banking on no one knowing how to enter." She turned to the boy. "That was brilliant, whatever you did…"

Snape was aware of Skonser's muttering, the willow-o-wisp wandering of Weasley's wand. The room was not very large, and the walls were bare, except for a dingy carpet. The ice looked oddly small. The person inside was facing him, curled up in a fetal shape. Snape could make out a fuzzy patch of black where the hair would be, and another at the groin. The man's arms seemed outstretched, reaching limply out at something in front of him, or falling backwards into water. Snape clenched his jaw, feeling suddenly as though the world were spinning around him.

"…shrinking charms don't work, do they?"

"No, the ice has some sort of abrasive property, almost. I've never seen it before, although the closest of its kind would be the Terracotta Warriors in Xi'an…"

"We could melt the ice," Snape said. "Transporting a person would be simpler."

He could feel Weasley and Skonser give him uncertain looks.

"I presume Granger did not tell you who she thinks is in the ice," Snape said.

There was a pause. Then, suddenly, the room began to shudder with the sound of grinding stone; the door was lowering, first to the height of sternum, then the bottom of the ribcage—

"Weasley, go!" Snape shouted. She had the sense to obey, flitting under the door like a swallow. "Skonser, and you, boy, go!" The door was at waist level, and lowering. Snape whirled around and pointed his wand at the ice. "_Confringo_!" The ice shivered, teetered, and fell on the ground, horizontal. He caught a flash of light outside; he could hear shouts, screams of pain. "_Accio!_" he commanded.

The door was nearing his knees. The ice skidded across the floor and lodged itself in the opening. He hesitated. Only a narrow slice of it had gotten through. Outside, lights continued to flash; he could hear clanging, and then a cry that seemed to come from Weasley. The Pyrane Potion was in his hand, but if he should melt the ice, the door would come down, and he could not go out now—

There was a crack, and the block of ice suddenly shot from the door, slamming into the back wall. The door lowered, and Snape stumbled aside as the ice skittered back, nearly smashed his legs, and slid into the center of the room.

He bent his face to the crack. "Go!" he shouted at the shadows of stamping feet. "Weasley, go—the boy!" The door shut with a thud. Everything was dark.

He stood and turned. He could hear nothing; the sudden silence was like thunder. "_Lumos_," he muttered. The ice glittered. The person inside, only a vague shape through the translucent frostiness, seemed to be curled, sleeping, at his feet. He swallowed, unscrewed the cap of the bottle, and poured out a steady drip. The potion hissed where it touched the ice, steamed; Snape squinted and stopped. His hand was trembling. The ice was so thin now, it looked he could break it by pressing it. The hissing increased, and Snape stepped back, feeling water seep through his shoes.

The man lay in a mold of the remaining ice. His skin glistened; he was breathing. Hair, wet and dark, covered the part of the face that the crook of the arm did not. An image flashed into his mind: a baby, newly born, and the midwife cradling the wet head. Snape reached with his wand, and pulled the hair back.

He swallowed and wondered if he found the memorized features familiar, that nose and mouth, the plane of the face. "Jonathan," he muttered. All he felt was a helpless thrumming in his throat as he watched the shoulders rise and fall, so slowly that once or twice, in the dim light, Snape feared with sudden panic that it had stopped.

The grinding sound returned. A sliver of light stabbed into the room. He could see the shadow of feet under the door.

Snape pulled the man's arm and propped him against his own chest. The skin, strangely, felt warm. "_Rennervate_," he commanded. "_Rennervate_!"

Jonathan was stirring. Snape felt his breath choking the words that were coming up his throat. He reached under Jonathan's arms and backed into a corner. "Jonathan—Potter," he hissed. The pounding of his blood was bringing back the headache that had lingered behind his eyes. Jonathan groaned, and Snape watched, almost in fascination, as the other man brought up a hand to shield his eyes.

The grinding stopped. Snape squinted at the light. He froze. It was impossible, what he saw; of all people, of all the ironies… But he quickly schooled his face into a cold smile. "Why, who is this…"

"Professor Snape? I thought it was you I heard."

"Fred Weasley," Snape said. "I would never have imagined that I would see you here."

"Likewise. And this is…?"

"...in the _Daily Prophet_, is that right? 'Hogwarts Headmaster leads new Order, saves the day.' I've half a mind to give an interview with Rita Skeeter!" Ginny Weasley snapped. "Budge over Fred, you're crowding the doorway."

Fred Weasley stepped aside. "What, don't I get thanked for saving my only sister's life?" he said in mock complaint, but the Weasley girl ignored him and peered inside.

"Professor? It's all right, Aaron told Hermione, and Hermione apparently thought it a good idea to go to Fred…" She paused and pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. "In any case, I suppose Fred here finally decided to get a move on with that Order of his—" She stopped short. "Is this the man in the ice?"

Snape nodded. "Yes." He shook off his outer robe and draped it over Potter's body. Snape shivered; it was only slightly cool, but he did not like being only in his shirtsleeves before so many people. He felt unsteady, as though he were standing on a boat, and he crossed his arms over his chest in a vain attempt to stop the ground's heaving.

"He's waking up," Ginny Weasley whispered. "Merlin!" she hissed suddenly. "His face! Look!"

Snape glanced down to see Jonathan tilt his head with a muttered groan, and remembered with a jolt, for this part he had partly forgotten, the Dark Mark that was etched into half of the other man's face.

"_Vinculus!_"

Snape snapped his wand up. "_Protego_!" he snapped, and Fred Weasley's spell shattered against the blue shield. He stood onto his feet and crossed his arms over his chest, aware that now Jonathan's head was resting on his feet.

"If I may," said Snape, before anyone could say or do anything more, "I would like to present you with Harry Potter."

"_Harry_?" the Weasley girl shrieked.

Snape looked down. Potter's eyes had opened, he saw, and were now examining, slowly, the ceiling, the walls, the crowd in the doorway. He found himself waiting for the gaze to turn upwards and meet his, but the moment never came, and he crossed his arms more tightly over his chest as Potter leaned forward and in dumb bewilderment.

"It's Harry!" the Weasley girl yelled. "Yes, Harry, Harry Potter!" The crowd poured in like a pack of ravenous animals. Snape stepped with difficulty out of the corner, glancing back at the man that was now blocked from view, and wondered if the memory had ever been his.

* * *

_A/N: Again, massive thanks to Procyon Black for betaing this, even while far away in distant lands._

_A/N2: I have been informed that story alerts for Ashes of Time are not always sent out. Is it me? or is it this site? Hopefully this problem will not continue. If it does, well, I can either try the bureaucracy or live without the ambrosia of authors. :( Please review!  
_


	7. Lights Were Paling One by One

**Chapter 7: Lights Were Paling One by One**

Snape curled his lips with distaste. The entrance was ringed with Weasley's followers, all of whom had a distinctly Gryffindor edge to them. Several of them stepped back in surprise at his appearance.

"Professor Snape?"

Snape crossed his arms over his chest. He felt cold without his robe. He was about to reply when a barrage of footsteps came from the far end of the corridor.

"Put down your wands!" a magically amplified voice boomed. "By order of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, any resistance will be met with force."

Several of Weasley's followers drew back in bemusement. Clearly, this was an unexpected turn of events. Snape smirked. He heard a shuffling behind him, and turned to find the two Weasley siblings emerging from the room.

"This is your last—" There was a pause. "Professor Weasley?"

"Boss?" the Weasley girl shouted. "Is that you?"

"Weasley," the voice said flatly. A moment later, the corridor was packed with a crowd of Aurors. Snape drew his arms closer around himself. He glanced sideways, almost unconsciously. Frost—Potter—was lying on a magically conjured stretcher. There was a frown on his face, and he was squinting his eyes. Snape turned quickly to look the other way.

"Jack Demme," Fred Weasley said warmly, as though they were at a Ministry cocktail party. "What brings you here with your folks?"

"I was sent by the Minister," Demme replied in an even tone.

"Really," said Weasley with a hint of sharpness in his voice. "Why? May I ask."

"Something about a Harry Potter," Demme said with a nonchalant shrug. Snape glanced at the Weasley girl, whose mouth was quirked in a slight grin. He followed her gaze to Skonser, who was sitting against the wall, nursing what looked to be a broken arm, but looking perfectly innocent.

"Are these the White Knight's men?" Demme asked, pointing to the five or six thickly-muscled men lying trussed on the floor. Pete, Snape noticed with satisfaction, was one of them.

"Yes," said Weasley. "May I ask, how did the Minister find out with such… alacrity?"

Demme shrugged again. "You could ask the Minister. The usual," he said to his Aurors. Snape felt a tinge of amusement as the members of Weasley's Order shuffled back, their faces torn between resentment and sheepishness, and the Aurors, with bored precision, stood over the captives.

"He needs St. Mungo's, Boss," the Weasley girl said, "and I think it would be a good idea to have an escort, given…" She paused.

"Cleared," Demme said. He paused, facing Fred Weasley, who had a stony look on his face. The Weasley girl was calling one of the Aurors to her side. The members of Weasley's Order were clustered uncertainly against the wall. Snape thought he caught a occasional flash of recognition between the two sides. The cluster around Potter was moving down the corridor, every so often hidden from view by knots in the rabble.

Snape straightened with shock. The boy Niles was not among the captured. No, he might have escaped the scene only to be caught by other Aurors who were sure to be securing the entire mansion. Unless—

"Where is Zabini?" he said, interrupting Weasley and Demme's talk.

Both men turned to him with their expressions hastily neutralized. "We did not meet him on the way down," Demme said.

Snape cursed inwardly. If Zabini had escaped, and the boy was with him— And he had promised the boy, bartered the boy's allegiance with a hope that he remembered seeing in the boy's hesitation— He felt an angry wrenching in his chest. He would be no better than Albus, or Jonathan, making promises that he would never keep…

"Professor Snape!"

It was the Weasley girl. He snapped around, acutely aware of the absence of his robes licking the backs of his heels. She beckoned him. A moment later, he saw Potter's pale face emerge as the man struggled into a sitting position.

His heart was beating furiously in his throat when he approached the stretcher. "What is the matter?"

"Severus—"

Snape turned his gaze from Weasley to the man in front of him. The eyes locked to his. A long moment passed. He had to swallow before he could talk. "The year is 2004, Potter."

"We told him that already," the Weasley girl said. Snape ignored the bewildered look she gave him. Potter's face was even whiter than before. He looked young, not childish, but as though he had been born fully grown, at the cusp of manhood. In all his memories, Jonathan had seemed older and weighted with something mysterious, but the present jarred a stranger's wand in his hand.

He turned to the Weasley girl. "I have business to take care of," he said. He paused, refusing to acknowledge to himself why he waited, and then Disapparated.

His flat had an aftertaste of Aurors. Fortunately, that was all that the Aurors had left; a brief investigation revealed that his flat had been minimally disturbed. It was probably Nymphadora Tonks who had come to take away the White Knight's men, he thought.

He would have to be careful, and there was little he could do. There was always little that he could do, besides grit his teeth and endure and wait for the slivers of information that came his way. And he never knew, no matter what Dumbledore said, how much it amounted to. That was what he was good at—enduring. Waiting. But the wait was over. He almost smiled, bitterly, to himself at the triteness of the expression. What was left then? To barge forth like a Gryffindor? But he had promised the boy.

He entered his laboratory. The cabinet was still open, and the ground covered with the black dust of the _shen huo jing_. The mess cleared with a flick of his wand. He returned to the sitting room, and his stomach made a low rumbling noise. He realized he had not eaten a proper meal in days.

The fireplace swirled green. Snape stood back, realizing a moment later that he did not have a robe on.

Granger's head appeared a moment later.

"Severus! There you are. Why aren't you here, at St. Mungo's? The whole Order's here."

Snape looked at her with mock bemusement. "Should I be? And you look awful, Granger. Get some sleep before you overstrain yourself."

"Harry's at the hospital."

Snape curled his lips and turned slightly. "I don't see how that obligates me at all."

"Severus!"

He stared silently at the mantelpiece, as though he could find the secrets to the questions that he was asking himself in the stone make. Why? He knew he was afraid, but it was not fear that made him petulant, that made him try to run away from the truth after twenty-five years of wait. He paused in his thoughts. If it was not fear, though, what could it be?

"He'll ask for you when he wakes." Granger paused, and then added, "It's an Order meeting, Severus, you shouldn't miss it."

"The Order was Albus's," Snape said coldly.

Granger sighed. "Well, if you change your mind…" She stopped. "Have a good day, Severus." The flames swirled and resumed their normal shade of vermillion.

Snape snapped around and stalked into his bedroom. He flicked his wand, and felt the comfortable folds of a robe envelope him. He hoped St. Mungo's would not misplace the robes he had draped over Potter's body; he was particularly fond of that one. It would also be nice, he thought, to get his wand back from Zabini. And the boy.

A moment later, he was back in the sitting room. He would need the Order's assistance, and the Potter-Granger duo, he was quite sure, would easily be the de facto leader. Fred Weasley would cease to be a threat if the Granger and the Weasley girl ensconced themselves well and, he thought with a streak of cynicism, played the media correctly.

"_St. Mungo's_," he shouted, tossing a pinch of Floo powder into the fire.

The moment he stepped out of the fireplace, he was nearly knocked back into it. The reception room was packed with reporters. The desk was completely hidden from view, and, he observed from the corner that he had been rapidly shoved into, it was impossible to get any closer.

A moment later, he noticed a plump nurse clamber onto the reception desk. She tapped her throat with her wand, and a clarion-like voice reverberated in the room: "EXCUSE ME. EXCUSE ME! THERE IS NO HARRY POTTER HERE. I HAVE NO CLUE WHO CAME UP WITH THIS RIDICULOUS IDEA. I REPEAT: THERE IS NO HARRY POTTER HERE! THIS IS A HOSPITAL, NOT A CIRCUS…"

Snape frowned. The portrait of Asclepius was winking at him and nodding towards the exit.

"Pardon me," Snape muttered, and wedged through the crowd to the doorway.

He stepped outside. The sky was darkening. He glanced to either side; the place was deserted, save for a clandestine interview that seemed to be going on between a hospital staff and a reporter.

"Professor! Over here. I'm under Disillusionment. This way."

Snape jerked his head in the direction of the Weasley girl's whisper. He followed the voice cautiously to a corner of the Muggle-store façade, next to a dented tin rubbish can. There was a faint sucking noise, and Ginny Weasley appeared.

"We can't have the reporters seeing me," the Weasley girl muttered. "They're attacking everyone with red hair." She led him to a section of the wall that had a swear word scrawled over its face, in handwriting as bad as that of a four-year-old. "This is a back entrance, actually."

"Interesting," Snape said dryly. "Where did you learn of it?"

"It's an Auror thing. _Dracunculus_." The wall slid inwards, revealing a dim interior staircase. "He's on the sixth floor," said Weasley.

As is Albus, Snape thought. Knowing this way of getting in would have been rather useful for his last visit.

"How did you know I had arrived?" Snape asked.

"Hermione said you'd probably come."

"I see." He was reluctantly impressed with Granger's ability to predict his actions, though it reminded him a bit uncomfortably of Albus. How did she end up in Gryffindor, with a mind like hers?

"They did the routine check-ups on him," Weasley went on. "From what I heard while I was there, there isn't anything wrong—physically. Magically…"

"We are keeping all the records?" Snape said sharply.

"Of course. We Obliviated the healer who did it. Magically, he's off the map."

"Yes," Snape said dryly. Granger's words did not need reminding.

They arrived in front of a metal door. Weasley turned the knob and pushed hard. "It doesn't fit well," she said apologetically, before lunging at the door again. This time she stumbled through. Snape followed into what appeared to be a closet. Weasley tapped her wand on the wall, which melted, a moment later, to reveal the blindingly white interior.

"Hello," said Granger. She was sitting to the right of the bed that stood in the center of the room.

Snape stepped forward. Fred Weasley was there as well, he noticed with distaste, standing on the other side of the bed. "He's asleep," he said.

"So he is," said Fred Weasley. "He was awake when he first got here, but I'm afraid you missed it, Professor."

"I see."

Granger turned her head. "Molly? Tonks? Severus is here," she called.

The two women entered, Molly Weasley first, blocking every part of the other witch except for the forehead and bristling pink hair.

"Severus, how good to see you," Molly Weasley said.

"Molly," Snape said with a nod. She seemed, strangely, much softer than he remembered. "It has been quite a while."

The wan smile she gave confirmed his impression. "Yes, it has." There was white in her otherwise red hair that he had not noticed.

"And Nymphadora," Snape said.

She scowled. "Hello to you too, Professor."

Snape turned to Granger, who was looking pensively at the wall. "Is this all of us?" He whirled around before she could answer. "Ah," he said, narrowing his eyes. "Lupin. No meeting could be complete without our token underdog, eh?"

Lupin's smile to him was even more hesitant than usual. "Hello, Severus. It's good to see you too."

"Please, a minimum of baiting," Granger said, but without any real chiding. Snape crossed his arms without saying a word, only smiling thinly at the look of surprise on Lupin's face. "I sent the summons to Mad-Eye, but he hasn't responded yet."

"He'll be around soon," said Fred Weasley.

Granger nodded with equanimity. "Very well then." She turned slightly, but enough so that she was addressing everyone in the room. "I called this meeting because Harry's back."

The Weasley girl gave a loud whoop and began to clap. Tonks joined in, but the two petered out a moment later.

"I am sure everyone is wondering where he was all this time," said Granger. "The answer is complicated." She paused and gave a brief glance first to Snape, and then to Lupin. She continued a moment later, as though nothing had happened. "None of us knows for sure exactly what happened. What we do know, however, is that Harry disappeared on the night of the final battle, and most likely spent the next four years encased in magical ice on the island of Svalbard." She stopped to take a breath. "Cases of magical hibernation are very rare, but they are usually… freak accidents, shall we say. In this case Harry will probably not be able to tell us much, since he was likely unconscious for most of it."

"For four whole years?" the Weasley girl said.

"It seems like quite a while, but Brunnhilde was supposed to have been sleeping for fifty or so years before Siegfried woke her."

"I thought that was only a Muggle legend," Fred Weasley said.

"Brunnhilde happened to be an Austrasian queen in the sixth century a.D. who played a prominent role in Muggle-magic politics," Granger replied evenly.

Snape snorted. "I take it that History of Magic was not your favorite subject, Weasley?"

A polite 'ahem' interrupted whatever Weasley's reply might have been. Asclepius was leaning halfway into the frame of his portrait. "There're a few wizards wanting to see Mr. Harry Potter," he said. "I believe they are the Minister and an Auror by the name of Cormac McLaggen."

"Well?" said Tonks.

"Well we know whose side the Minister is on," the Weasley girl said darkly. She crossed her arms over her chest, staring evenly at her brother. "Hermione and I found out yesterday morning," she continued. "I'm quite impressed by how deep your pockets are, Fred."

Snape snorted. In hindsight this new development was not so surprising, although it was worrisome. He had underestimated Fred Weasley. He quashed the voice in his head that reminded him of his tendency to underestimate Gryffindors in general.

"It might not be a good idea to alienate the Minister," Fred Weasley said, as though he had heard nothing.

"I wouldn't mind Cormac coming in," the Weasley girl went on, a bit louder, pretending, in her turn, that her brother had not said anything. "At least he isn't under anyone's agenda."

"Hmm," said Granger. Her gaze flickered from Fred Weasley to his sister, and then to the bed. "Or we can let Harry decide."

As if on cue, the others in the room lurched towards the bed. Lupin had a particularly vapid look about him, and nearly knocked Tonks out of the way. Snape hung back, letting his lips curl in disdain. He hated the fact that a fist seemed to have clenched around his stomach.

"Excuse me?" said Asclepius, who had reappeared. "Alastor Moody is there as well."

"Thank you," called Granger, who, besides Snape, seemed to be the only person who heard. "The Minister will be here soon," she announced. At Snape's frown, she added, "Alastor knows this back entrance, too."

"Severus," Lupin called. He had a strained look on his face. "Could you come over here for a moment?"

Snape set his lips in a thin line, and stalked to the bedside with as much coldness as he could muster. "Pardon me," he muttered, and Molly Weasley and the Weasley girl stepped back to let him through.

Potter had a tentative smile on his face.

"Severus," he said, and reached up a hand. Dumbly, Snape took it. The black markings of the Dark Mark looked awkwardly out-of-place on Potter's pale face. It was whiter than he remembered. He realized that, in his mind, he had envisioned Jonathan growing old with him. The hair should have been streaked with gray, and the eyes darker. But they glittered with the unnatural greenness that belonged to no one else but Potter.

A sucking sound came from the opposite wall. Snape let go of the hand, feeling his face grow hot with a flush. He wondered, too late, what the others would make of it. Perhaps Lupin was feeling tormented, he thought spitefully.

"Hello, Minister," said Granger.

"Granger," Rufus Scrimgeour grunted. He had entered with Mad-Eye Moody on his right, and a vaguely familiar man in his twenties on his left. He and the Weasley girl exchanged greetings; Snape supposed the man must have been an ex-pupil.

The Minister stepped forward and gave the room a cursory glance before resting his gaze on Potter. He seemed to change his mind a few times before saying, at last, "It's been a few years, Harry Potter."

"Minister," Potter said in an even tone. His gaze slid to the person standing to the Minister's right. "Alastor." The sound jarred in Snape's mind. He felt himself jerked back twenty five years, to stone-wall corridors and the rush of emotion, but he found himself aware, also, of how different this Potter was from the man of five years ago. This Potter sounded downright cold. Had he never noticed it in his memory, even after having known the truth?

"I expect you'll want to have some time for yourself to recuperate," said Scrimgeour. "Very glad to have you back, though. I think I can speak for everyone in saying that we are all extremely grateful."

Potter inclined his head. "Thank you, Minister."

Scrimgeour grunted and stepped back. "There's a lot of familiar faces in this room," he muttered.

"Yes," said Granger, "and with Alastor here, I believe we're complete." She smiled. "Even Albus is just next door."

The Minister grunted again. "I don't suppose I could address him as the leader of your Order anymore." He turned to Fred Weasley and cleared his throat.

"Granger, I believe, would be the most suitable for the role of leadership, if indeed you are looking for one, Minister," Snape said before Scrimgeour could open his mouth. Fred Weasley did not move, or even seem to hear. "All of us can attest that she worked more closely with Albus than anyone else." He paused. "Except for perhaps Potter."

"No, I couldn't," Granger said, demurely stroking her belly. "Being the Head of the Department of Mysteries is a task I would like to commit myself to fully." She paused. The Minister grunted in assent. Something had happened, Snape was sure, glancing in turn at the Minister's wooden face, the thin-lipped expressions of the Weasley siblings, and Granger's waiting look.

"Yes, Granger, your demonstration of the independence of the Department of Mysteries was most effective," Scrimgeour growled. He turned to Fred Weasley.

"You would be surprised at the amount of paperwork Hogwarts Headmasters have, Rufus," Weasley said with equanimity. "I'm not surprised that my predecessor declined any Ministry position."

Snape frowned. He felt the beginnings of understanding uncurl in his mind. Apparently quite a lot had happened while he was lying in a cold stone cell, his mind clouded by crackle.

The Minister cleared his throat. "Well then—"

"I doubt the Order of the Phoenix will have much activity in the future," Granger interrupted. "Voldemort is as dead as he was four years ago. My magicists and I checked with every possible tracker. But if you insist, it is my opinion that Harry should be the leader of the Order of the Phoenix."

"I second that," the Weasley girl said.

"Me too," said Tonks.

Granger looked around. "Then I believe the matter is settled."

"That is," Snape said dryly, "if Potter is willing to take the position."

Potter stirred. "I… sorry, but I don't quite understand," he muttered. His gaze darted from one face to the other, like a will-o-wisp. "If Voldemort is dead, I don't see the point of keeping the Order going. Albus always said that it should be disbanded in times of peace," he added.

Snape felt the expectant gazes in the room turn to Fred Weasley. Molly Weasley and Lupin, however, looked as confused as Potter. Snape curled his lips. So they were almost as ignorant and ill-informed as he had been a few months ago. And apparently Weasley was hiding his tracks from his family.

But it was not Weasley who answered. "There's never a time of peace, Potter," Moody growled. He unhooked the flask from his hip and took a swig of it. "Constant vigilance!"

"Yes," Potter said, sounding slightly exasperated, "but that's why we have Aurors."

"Do you think Voldemort is truly dead?"

The silence that fell glittered like small crumbles of glass.

"What do you mean?" Molly Weasley rasped. Her face was ashen.

"Alastor is referring to the fact that vestiges of Voldemort still remain in this world, but"—Granger raised her voice momentarily, which turned out to be unnecessary—"that is expected. We have discussed this more than once. And I have talked to you about this at least once, Minister." She paused. "Voldemort managed magic profound enough such that the eradication of his soul was not sufficient to undo its effects. His failed attempt to use Harry as a Horcrux is an example of such an attempt."

"A little bit here, and a little bit there," Moody growled.

Molly Weasley looked placated, and Tonks and the Weasley girl seemed only slightly uncertain. Snape found himself wondering how much it was due to Granger's lying, and how much was to their own. Granger, he thought with a pang of irony, was a suitable heir to Albus with respect to sugar-coated falsehoods. But there was really no way to breach the truth, that the souls of Potter and Voldemort no longer truly existed. There was now only a dark in-between, whose only light had come twenty-five years ago.

A memory floated to the surface of his mind, a reminiscence that tasted like the slick of old oil. Not long ago, he had been the only one who believed that Potter, or Jonathan Frost, was still alive. How long ago had that been? More than a year ago. Before he started frequenting the dens. Two years? Time felt slippery, a haze of cold November mornings. Images scattered like embers on a mirror: Granger admitting that she no longer thought Potter to be alive, the diary of Christolph burning in the fireplace. Lupin no longer trying. Leaving Hogwarts, and everything that had kept him tethered, that had kindled the incentive to do more than merely exist. The emptiness of his den. And now—this. He glanced at the stubbornly furrowed brow, the soft lower lip, the shape of the jaw, realities that hollowed memories with despair. Damn Potter for undoing what had taken twenty-five years to do. Was it some joke that a still-sane Albus was playing from behind curtains? Now he had to contend with a man that he loathed and abhorred, who had betrayed him, who had commanded more than half his life, whose memory he had clung to and fought against for more than two decades, and who was still the best memory he had.

"It's your business," Scrimgeour said gruffly. He stepped back. "I would give a press conference if I were you, Potter," he said. "And soon. Good day to you all."

"Good day, Minister," said Granger. The other murmured in accord. Moody tapped the wall with his wand, and the cavity opened. One by one, the three men stepped in, and disappeared.

"How nice of them to drop by," Granger muttered. There was a pause in the room. "Harry, how are you feeling?"

Potter stirred. The others leaned forward, and Snape tensed at the feeling of being surrounded. "All right," said Potter. He attempted a wan smile. "Everything's a bit… hazy right now. Memories, and things, I mean."

"You must live with us," said Molly Weasley. "It's been ages since the last time you did."

"No, I couldn't possibly impose—"

"The house is too empty," she interrupted, "and I can't cook for just Ginny and me. And if you feel obligated in any way, there's always the garden you could de-gnome."

Potter looked up with a hint of desperation in his face. Snape felt Granger's gaze on him. He caught it, and saw her glance at Fred Weasley, and then back at him.

"As much as I am aware of your desire to impose yourself on Molly, Mr. Potter, I'm afraid I'll have to borrow you for a few weeks," Snape said smoothly. "Some observation would be advisable, I believe."

Molly Weasley frowned. "Surely Ginny and I could do that?"

"Yes, I am sure you could," Snape said, as amicably as he could, "but there are certain… particulars that would be most easily achieved with Potter in my vicinity." He paused. "Poppy handed his hospital records to me," he added. "And there are certain potions that require the near-constant presence of the patient."

"I see," Molly Weasley said. She sighed resignedly. "Well, Severus, I hope you won't mind if I sent you some food parcels?"

Snape smiled thinly. "I am not planning on starving The-Man-Who-Defeated-Voldemort."

"Snape," Lupin muttered warningly.

Snape looked down at Potter. The disturbingly green eyes met his. "It's up to you, Mr. Potter."

"Yes," Potter said, looking around the room. From his position, Snape could see him swallow before speaking. "That would be the best thing to do, I think."

Snape clenched his jaw, and cursed his heart for pounding so madly in his chest. It was nothing—and at the same time, everything, just as it had been before.

The meeting ended soon after that. Tonks was the first to go, citing Auror duties, and Fred Weasley, from headmaster tasks; everyone else, Snape noticed with a bit of annoyance, was reluctant to leave, even though no one spent much time actually talking to Potter. They seemed perfectly content to loaf in his presence, as though he were a Muggle radiator on a cold day. Snape was thankful no one tried to engage him in conversation, particularly Lupin or Potter. Finally, he stalked to where the Weasley girl was listening to Molly Weasley's maternity conversation with Granger, and interrupted it.

"Yes, Professor?"

"Weasley," he said in a low voice, "I would like to ask of you a favor."

She gave a glance to the two other women, and then stepped aside.

"Do you remember the boy from Zabini manor? His name was Niles, I believe."

"The one who opened the door? Yes."

"I have an interest in him; he may be important, not just to the White Knight's operations, but to Potter as well." Strictly, it was not a lie. "If he has been taken by the Aurors, I would appreciate that you inform me."

The Weasley girl frowned. "I can do that. I don't think he was taken, though."

"No," Snape said grimly. "But you will inform me of any developments?"

The Weasley girl nodded.

"Severus?" Granger called. "I have some of Harry's old things." She glanced at the bed, where Potter was engaged in a halting conversation with Lupin. "You can drop by and pick them up later."

Snape scowled. He felt suddenly as though he were once again the dreaded Potions master, forced to care for brats he would rather see minced into ingredients, and once more twice Potter's age. He turned half an eye to where Potter seemed to have warmed up to the werewolf. Even seeing the Dark Mark scrawled over the pale face, Snape found himself reminded more sharply than ever of Potter's father. He tried to bat the thought away. James Potter had not entered his thoughts for a long time.

"Severus."

Ah, Lupin. Snape narrowed his eyes and crossed his arms over his chest. "What is it?"

Lupin's gaze shifted to Snape's left, where the two Weasley women were chatting with Granger. "Just… take good care of Harry."

Snape snorted. "Rest assured. Potter will receive no more damage than is necessary." Lupin's face tightened, but he excused himself and disappeared through the wall without further ado. Snape could feel the three women's gaze on him, and Potter's eyes, in the moment that he met their gaze, had a masked look about them. Snape gave an inward sigh. It seemed his fate to eternally be dealing with Gryffindors.

"Harry, you're always welcome to visit the Burrow," Molly Weasley insisted half an hour later. "We'd love to have you for dinner some time."

"Mum, he knows," the Weasley girl muttered.

"You too, Severus, and Hermione, don't you dare go buying baby clothes. You won't believe how warm Bill's baby jumpers are."

"Yes," said Granger, with a smile. "Roger and I are deciding Harry's clothing schedule. He'll be a Weasley on Mondays and Wednesdays, and a Pickering on Tuesdays and Thursdays."

"Don't believe in those Muggle things. Arthur insisted on buying one for Charlie, and he nearly caught pneumonia when he was three. Harry, do you think you'll have time this Saturday?"

"Mum!" the Weasley girl said, exasperated. "Come on, Mum. Bye, Hermione; bye, Harry!"

"Floo me if anything comes up," Granger called.

"I'll have Ginny send you a few scones tomorrow, Severus."

"I doubt Potter will go hungry. After all, he has gone four years without food."

"Severus!"

"Bye Professor—"

Granger stood, arching her back. She looked at Harry with a half-tentative smile. "I'm so glad you're back, Harry. Take care, Severus."

Snape nodded. "You too, Granger," he said. He put a hand on Potter's shoulder. "We're Apparating, Potter," he said curtly, and steadied himself. In another moment, he felt the surge of magic swallow him and blur the world before his eyes.

They appeared in the empty sitting room. The darkness was a relief from the blinding sterility of the hospital walls. Snape shut his eyes. He felt suddenly exhausted. A headache was pulsing somewhere in front of temples, and was slowly digging its way behind his eyes.

"Well, Potter," he said, letting go of Potter's shoulder. "This is my flat. I do not believe you have seen it before."

Potter did not answer for an unusually long pause. "No," he said at last. "No, I haven't."

Snape grunted. "Tibby!" he barked. The house-elf appeared with a pop. Snape opened his mouth, but before he could say anything, Tibby tensed and jerked away from Potter. "Tibby?"

The house-elf's voice was more of a whimper. "Tibby is s-sorry. Is this—is this Master Snape's guest?"

Snape nodded. Potter's face looked hard, but also unsurprised. "Is something the matter, Tibby?"

Tibby shook her head. Snape had to strain his ears to make out what the house-elf was gibbering: "Magic not f-friendly… not b-belong in a home…"

"This is my guest, Tibby," said Snape. "I swear he will not harm you." He glanced at Potter, who was staring into space, and pointedly cleared his throat.

"What? Oh… um, Tibby…" Potter lowered himself into a squat. The house-elf shrieked and jolted backwards. "Guess not," Potter muttered. "I… well, I promise not to hurt you Tibby. I swear," he added hesitantly.

"Prepare arrangements for a guest, please," said Snape. "I would also like dinner now. Something light for me. And for Potter as well, I imagine."

"Yes, Master," Tibby squeaked, bowed hurriedly, and disappeared.

"I thought you were good with house-elves," Snape said.

"I…" Potter trailed off. "I used to be."

The pause strained the air. It was as though Potter had brought something darker into the room, something that was now waiting to spring from the voluminous layers of shadow.

"The kitchen is this way," said Snape. He glanced at the clock; the hour hand was nearly pointing to twelve. A uncomfortable trickle worked down his stomach. His bedroom was too small for two people. And Potter would not ask it, probably—and he would not allow it.

The chair he had summoned for the boy Niles was still there. Potter lowered himself into it and clutched his arms around his elbows. Snape frowned.

"Are you cold?"

Potter nodded. "Just a bit."

"You are wearing too little, Potter." He held back on pointing out that Potter was actually wearing his robe. "Wait here. I believe I have some clothes that might fit you."

He left the kitchen to the hallway and then his own room. The smell of it was familiar and strange at the same time. He wondered how much of a difference two days of absence made. Snape swung open the wardrobe door and held up his wand with a muttered, "_Lumos_." The wand sputtered; that was another thing he should have mentioned to the Weasley girl, he thought: his wand.

He returned to the kitchen with a jumper that Albus had given him towards the beginning of his teaching career, before Albus knew just what sorts of Christmas gifts he could appreciate. The food had appeared on the table, and Potter had begun eating.

"This should suffice," Snape said.

"Thanks," said Potter. "So… when's Hermione going to have her baby?" he asked a few moments later.

"Any time now."

"She's naming it Harry?"

Snape nodded. Potter seemed neither, or perhaps both, pleased and unhappy about it. His next words were more hesitant. "What about… this Order thing?" He paused. "I mean, I don't see why it's still around, or why Hermione hasn't disbanded it."

"You missed quite a lot while you were in the ice," Snape said dryly. "The Order was disbanded as Albus would have wished. However, not long after, Fred Weasley started his own Order. From what I know of it, it is something of a private vigilante group." He paused. "It is perhaps unfortunate that Weasley is the current Hogwarts Headmaster."

"Fred's Headmaster?"

"It is a surprise, I know."

"I always thought…" Potter trailed off. Snape waited. "Well, you, for one," Potter mumbled. "I couldn't really see Fred as Headmaster, although I guess he changed after George died…"

Snape grunted. They were silent for a few moments more. "I… don't remember a lot," Potter said. Snape waited. "Or anything at all, really." Potter frowned. "The place where I woke up—where was that?"

"That is something of a long story. I assume you are aware of the nature of drug cartels?"

"Drug cartels? You mean, like—" Potter paused. "Cocaine? Marijuana?"

"Yes. Recently, there has been a flourishing of magical equivalents. One of the results of this Muggle-wizard hybridization…" He let his lips curl in disdain, but only briefly.

"You mean, wizard crack? That sort of thing?"

"I believe so," said Snape, not entirely sure what crack was. "One of the more prominent leaders in the drug trade is a figure who calls himself the White Knight."

Potter snorted. "Sorry. Sounds corny."

"Indeed." Snape paused. He supposed that ultimately it would be futile to hide his business dealings from Potter. But it was no one's business besides his own. "Regardless his choice of name, he is not to be underestimated. The White Knight managed to include an agent in a Ministry mission to discover a thing of power…" Snape smiled at the taste of irony. "Which happened to be you."

"Me?"

"Yes. Using certain devices that Granger and her magicists invented, it was discovered that you have five hundred times the magic of Hogwarts."

Potter sat back. He appeared stunned, but there was something else as well, something in the paling of the face and emptying of those unnaturally green eyes, which made the lines of the Dark Mark show more strongly. Snape found himself wishing that Potter would pull the glamour over the hideous black lines, just as he had as Jonathan Frost.

Snape continued. "There was a struggle, I believe, between the Ministry and the White Knight. The White Knight temporarily managed to gain possession of you, as a block of ice, and hide you in Zabini Manor. Appropriate, as the White Knight is really Blaise Zabini."

"Zabini? Are you serious?"

"Yes," Snape said dryly.

Potter rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. "Damn," he muttered. "A lot's happened while I wasn't around."

"Mm. I would say the happenings during the first twenty years were considerably more substantial."

Potter let his hands drop to his sides. Snape clenched his jaw, but forced himself to remain calm. The kitchen was lit with garishly white lighting, which Granger informed him was taken from Muggle living spaces. It made the pallor of skin look closer to that of a corpse.

"How did you… find out?"

"Albus always knew," Snape said. His voice sounded cold, even to himself. "And Granger figured it out herself."

"So… you know?"

"Yes, I know," Snape snapped, lacing the last word heavily with sarcasm. Potter sat very still. "Though not everything, I'm certain," Snape finished, voice cool. There was a silence for a few moments. "Albus has gone insane."

Potter's looked up, this time genuinely stunned. "What?"

"A year after you disappeared, he began deteriorating," Snape said. "He is in St. Mungo's now. In fact, he was next door to where our meeting was held."

"But—how? How'd it happen?"

"Albus was old," Snape said coolly. He felt an inward stab of irritation at the naked bewilderment in Potter's expression. It was the first completely unmasked emotion that he could remember seeing on Potter's face since his awakening. "You may visit him, if you like. I am certain he won't mind."

"Look—I'm sorry."

Snape frowned. Their plates were nearly empty now. It was now even more difficult to think, to impose any clarity on the tired tumult of emotions in his mind. "For…?"

The word came after the barest hesitation. "Everything."

Potter was looking at him, meeting his eyes with that unyielding green gaze. "That is a highly generic statement, Potter," Snape said. There was a pause, held by the cold, fluorescent silence of the kitchen. "It gives no indication of whether or not you are even aware of what you are being sorry for."

There was an element of pleading in Potter's gaze, but it was a dim shade of what he remembered, clouded somewhere behind the inscrutability of green. "What… do you know, of what happened—to me?"

"What do I know?" Snape felt his lips twist into an ironic smile. "I am afraid that what I know does not amount to much." He paused. "Does how sorry you are depend on how much I know?"

"No! Severus— Please."

Snape swallowed. The voice was still the same. He felt as though a chord inside his chest, dormant and untouched for twenty-odd years, was suddenly vibrating with uncontrollable intensity. But the ripples of that motion had changed, and were now chafing painfully against the expanse of wounds that time was too slow to heal.

"I'm sorry—"

"I suppose it does not matter much, given our present situation," Snape said as neutrally as possible. "Voldemort is dead." He shrugged. "There is justifiably little space for complaints."

"No, what I did to you was wrong, I shouldn't have—"

Snape gazed critically at the other man. "You could have changed the timeline."

Potter's face whitened and closed on itself like a collapsing tent. "How did you know?"

"Granger told me," Snape said curtly, "and I verified her Arithmancy. It was not difficult, Potter. You did a poor job of covering your tracks."

Potter groaned. Snape felt a fevered touch of satisfaction, rising like the last remaining beam of a house that had burned itself to ashes. There was nothing to take satisfaction in, besides the cheap substitute of itself. He felt exhausted. If only he had some mort.

"Look, I'm sorry about that. It seemed like—" Potter stopped. "I don't know. I… I can't explain it."

Snape raised an eyebrow. "At least you are becoming more truthful."

Potter said nothing, only rubbing the bridge of his nose with his forefinger. Snape glanced at the clock: it was well past midnight.

"It's late," he said, getting up. "I'm afraid you will have to make do with my lack of a guest bedroom, Potter. You may sleep in my room tonight."

"Where will you sleep?" said Potter.

Snape paused. They were standing in the hallway. "In the sitting room." He waved his wand, and the lights in his room brightened. "The bathroom is that room," Snape said, pointing. "I shall leave you to your rest. Please come to me immediately if there is a problem."

He stepped swiftly out of the room and closed the door behind him. He stayed frozen in that position for a moment, recovering. It had never been so difficult to close a door. He felt as though he had directed a massive lead weight onto his chest.

There were things he still had to do before he could sleep. It would probably be a good idea to check the wards. Zabini might not be a proficient wizard, but he had more than proficient resources. Snape reminded himself to ask Granger or the Weasley girl about his wand first thing the next morning; he tried to remember, and failed, whose wand it was that he had…

The door in the hall opened. Snape sat motionless in the sitting room chair. Footsteps, and then the low buzz of the bathroom fan. Water running. Snape got up and began the arduous process of transfiguring the chair into a bed. He wished the wand he was using were not so stiff. It gave the pillows a distinctly wooden texture. From the hall he heard water stopping, the light switched off, footsteps. A silent moment, and then the soft thud of the door being shut.

Snape got up and walked to the bathroom. Tibby had provided a second set of toiletries, he noticed. He finished quickly and returned to the shadows of the sitting room. He was grateful for the fire; it was a cold night. He lay unmoving under the blankets, wondering how long it would be before he could fall asleep. But exhaustion flung a mantel over his mind right after he shut his eyes, and he was lost in uneasy dreams in a matter of moments.

* * *

_A/N: Thanks again to Procyon Black's 'speta' (ie, speedy beta)._

_A/N2: Please review! Just thirty seconds to make the author happy._


	8. Past and Present

**Chapter 8: Past and Present**

Snape started, squinting uncomprehendingly at the ceiling. He had been dreaming about broomsticks and white fluorescent lights, and for some reason porcelain plates with the word 'NMR' printed on the bottom. He stared some more at the ceiling before he heard Granger's voice from the fireplace.

"Oh, I'm sorry—I didn't know you'd be here."

Snape grunted in reply. He sat up and fumbled for his temporary wand, noting that Granger was looking up ruefully from the green flames. He hesitated a moment before flinging aside his blankets; he did not wish to be seen in such a state. "Has something happened?"

"Well… yes and no," Granger said.

"Perfectly clear," Snape muttered. "_Tersus_." A shock of cool air batted his face, and he nearly dropped his wand. "Idiot thing," he muttered.

"That isn't your wand."

"Brilliant as usual, Granger." He rubbed his eyes and noticed for the first time the thing lying in front of the fire. "Shit," he muttered.

Granger smothered a laugh. Snape felt a flush creep up to the edge of his ears; he hardly ever cursed, and only in front of Albus or Minerva or his cauldron. "Pardon," he said smoothly and bent down to pick up the copy of the _Daily Prophet_. He glanced at the headline, and in the next instant nearly tore the parchment, so tightly did he clench his hands in a convulsion of shock.

"I don't know how they found out. We Obliviated everyone at St. Mungo's, and I don't think Fred even knew…"

Snape had to force himself to relax his jaw enough to lower it for speech. "Indeed." One of the pictures was an old one of Potter, and the other, of himself, must have been from his sixth or seventh year. He could not remember on what occasion it had been taken. Thankfully the picture of Potter was from after the war had begun in earnest, which made him look, in a twist of irony, older than Snape.

"'HARRY POTTER RETURNS FROM TIME-TRAVEL ROMANCE WITH THEN-DEATH EATER SEVERUS SNAPE,'" Snape read aloud. "I was not a Death Eater then. They have their facts wrong." He felt alternately the urge to rip the tabloid into pieces, toss it negligently into the fire, or burst out with insane laughter.

"I know…" Granger said in a consoling voice. "And I don't know how they could have gothold of this…"

"I do," Snape said. He stood up and turned around. The short hallway was dark; none of the doors it led to were open. "_Silencio_."

"Is Harry still asleep?"

"You just woke me up, Granger."

"Sorry. Stupid question." She waited a moment before asking, "You know?"

"Yes," Snape said unhelpfully. He was less certain than his tone had been, but it was plausible, likely even. It would fit with everything else. "I see they have dragged Albus into this as well."

"Yes, bringing up the whole Grindelwald thing. Honestly, and Albus can't even defend himself!"

"No," said Snape, not adding that the old wizard probably could not be affected either. "Interesting. A quote from Lupin."

"It's completely innocent," said Granger. She added, after a pause, "He told me, this morning, that he regretted not having suspected earlier. They informed him that it was supposed to be an article commemorating the Order members on the occasion of Harry's return."

"Idiot," Snape muttered. He read a few more lines. "'He was close to a few people—mostly Slytherins.' I see that Lupin has forgotten about Evans."

"Lily? Harry's mum?"

Snape grunted in answer. He felt some of the tension drain out of his shoulders. The article, though conspiratorial and revelatory in tone, was mostly theories and had hardly anything concrete. Even the quotes they had managed to dredge out from Lupin and another Gryffindor whose name he did not recognize had no specific context. The only unsettling aspect was that most of the accusations were true.

"Interesting. Lestrange and Matellan."

"Yes."

Snape could hear the barest hesitation in Granger's voice. He crumpledup the paper and dropped it on the floor next to the fireplace. In the green firelight it looked particularly insidious, as though all sorts of curses were glittering on its surface.

"Albus never mentioned them to me," Granger said.

"No," Snape said. The curtains were drawn, but some light spilled in from the edges. Judging from its brightness, it was already rather late in the morning. "I don't think he even knows."

"Who does?"

Snape let his eyes meet Granger's. "Potter."

There was no reaction in her face, not that he had expected any. She was too experienced to let anything show. "Is there any truth then?"

"You should ask Potter, not me," he said. He realized that he was lying to her, for he could remember, clearly, Terrance Lestrange sprawled on the hearthrug, resembling more than anything else an expiring fish lying belly-up on the bank. He also realized that his lack of an answer was a definite move against Potter. It was as though he, Snape, were admitting there was truth in the conjectures-cum-accusations, that it was Potter's fault.

He sat without moving, and stared at the vertex where the ceiling met the wall. Another scene played out in his head, one that bubbled up without conscious bidding: that of his last encounter with Frost in Dumbledore's office, where he had tried to sway the headmaster with memories that only two others had witnessed. He shut his eyes, and opened them again when he realized that Granger was still there, waiting.

"Although I am sure Albus knows something about Lestrange," said Snape. "He was… involved, personally."

"I see," Granger said quietly. It was an inscrutable voice. Snape waited for her next words. "It's things that happened a very long time ago," she said, hesitantly.

Snape nodded curtly, knowing her meaning without her saying it. "Although not quite so long ago for Potter."

Granger bit her lower lip. "You said you had an idea of how the _Prophet_ found out about this?" she said, changing the subject.

"Yes," said Snape. "Zabini." He smiled thinly. How appropriate that it should all be linked, as though connected by predetermined chains that had waited until now to reveal themselves.

"Blaise Zabini?"

Snape nodded. "When I was in his manor, he took the effort to inform me that he was in contact with an—entity that knew quite a lot about me. That entity happened to be an imprint of Lestrange that was left in this world."

"As in, a ghost?"

"Not quite." He paused, sifting through his mind again to make sure the facts were laid out without confusion. "I am not sure if you remember the Grimhild Fealty?"

Granger frowned. "No, I don't… it sounds familiar."

"It was one of the spells detailed in the Founder's Nest."

"Oh, I see. I don't remember it at all."

"It was not one of the better documented ones." In fact, they had practically ignored it—the spell was one that Salazarhad noted, but, judging from the lack of information, never attempted. It also happened to involve an orgy of soul and blood magic. Snape remembered being the only one who had taken notice ofit, only because it had reminded him of Terrance Lestrange.

"So what is it?"

"It follows the principles of a fealty spell. In this case, the vassal allows part of his soul to be sewn to 'the lord's leg,' if I recall correctly." He paused. "Salazar was even more vague than usual about the metaphors. But the vassal, being partially soulless, will then have powers of the _ieiunita_."

"_Ieiunita_?" Granger frowned. "Aren't they supposed to be related to dementors? And aren't they supposed to be mythical?"

"I suppose they are," Snape said dryly. "But I strongly suspect that Voldemort bound Terrance Lestrange by the Grimhild Fealty. I also have good reason to believe that Zabini attempted this with the boy, Niles."

"Really," Granger muttered. "Attempted—was he successful?"

"Not completely, but enough to clarify the communication he had established previously with Lestrange. As to what else this spell entails, I am unsure. Obviously the results were not satisfying enough for Voldemort to do twice."

Granger nodded. "I see. I'll have my magicists look into that. And I'll tell Ginny to keep an eye out." She sighed. "I'd like to ask you a favor, Severus."

"Yes?"

"Do you remember the potion we hypothesized that could trace the casterof an _Obliviate_?"

Snape nodded.

"You never attempted it, did you?"

"No, I did not."

"Could you? I would like to use it."

"Mm." He recalled only the general outline of how the potion should be approached. There were notes, though, that both he and Granger had assiduously kept. "It is a very complex potion."

"Which is why I'm asking you, Severus," Granger said. She had half a smile on her lips. "And I'll make sure you're adequately paid."

"I am not in need of the Ministry's employment, Granger," Snape said in a mild voice. But even as he said those words, he found himself wondering how true it was: the arrangements he had in the dens could not no longer continue as they had.

"Of course. But it's a matter of policy, and principle. Moreover, you'll be working for the Department of Mysteries, so you'll have your own patent—as long as you don't use it for the Dark Arts later on, which I'm sure you won't."

"I see." There was a pause. "How much is the recompense?"

"A hundred galleons down payment. Three hundred more if it's successful. This isn't counting supplies and ingredients."

Snape nodded once, sharply. "I will take it."

"Good. I'll send you a memo."

"There's no need," said Snape. He regarded Granger critically. "Who is it for?"

"Ginny Weasley. And… I don't think myself, but possibly." She pushed a hair back behind her temple. "Molly as well."

Snape frowned. "You believe—?"

Granger nodded. "Yes. Hopefully it'll come to nothing, but…" She glanced sideways at the room. "I'll leave you to Harry now. Your place is really peaceful, actually. I'd have expected it to be swarming with owls."

"They don't know where I live."

"Ah," Granger said, smiling. "Sometimes, I wish the same." She paused and indicated the _Prophet_, lying on the hearthrug. "I've been telling everyone neither yes or no, about that." She stopped again, glancing expectantly at Snape's face.

"That, you can continue," Snape said coldly.

Granger nodded with equanimity. "All right. I will see you later then. Say hullo to Harry for me."

"Yes," said Snape, and watched Granger vanish in a green swirl.

The fire was too bright in the ensuing silence. Snape had half the urge to put it out. The _Prophet_ stared up at him from the ground, the pictures almost too cast in shadow to be seen—almost. Potter stared out with a sort of tired annoyance, and the picture of himself, half of which was caught underneath the fold, scowled and glanced upwards intermittently.

Abruptly, he snatched up the tabloid and held it close to the fireplace. Potter in the picture nudged his glasses higher onto his nose. It was a common, though often disregarded, notion among wizards that destroying photographs or portraits would bring bad luck on the person inside. Snape could remember his mother crouched in her rocking chair, cutting each picture of his father into smaller pieces with a pair of black-handled scissors. He remembered once finding, after shifting through the scraps of his mother's rage, a picture of himself, cut so that he no longer had a mouth, even after he tried piecing the parts together.

Snape turned and flicked his wand. "_Finite incantatem_," he said, and the silencing spell evaporated. After crossing the room, he stepped into the hallway and stopped short.

Potter looked up from the breakfast table. "Hey," he said, and smiled.

Snape nodded curtly, not trusting himself to speak. He continued down the hall and turned into the bathroom, closing the door firmly behind him. The copy of the _Prophet_, he noticed, was still in his hands. He dropped it in a corner with his Potions periodicals and filled his hands with water, watching the brief line of bubbles swirl like trapped marbles, before splashing it onto his face.

A few minutes later, he entered the kitchen, feeling considerably more in command of himself.

"Good morning," he said.

"Hi," said Potter. "You've an amazing house elf. Even the toast is good."

"Tibby is the landlady's, not mine," Snape replied. "I see you've had a cosmetic shift."

Potter put a hand self-consciously to his face. "Yeah, I figured it'd be better than walking around with that thing on my face." Snape watched the other man move his hands awkwardly to the table. "It's still a glamour. I'll have to figure out how to get it off permanently."

"Indeed," Snape said. Before Potter could say anything else, Snape tossed the_Prophet_ onto the table. "This morning's post, courtesy Miss Granger. Or Mrs. Granger-Pickering, I should say."

Potter stopped chewing and slowly held up the paper. Snape settled into the other chair at the table and began spreading marmalade onto his toast. He glanced occasionally at Potter's face, which was fixed into a tight, pale, half-knit frown.

"Granger has no idea how they found out," said Snape. He took a bite of the toast and chewed it slowly. There was a hollowness in his stomach, but he felt a strange lack of hunger.

"This stuff on Dumbledore," Potter said at last. He gestured, and it was a moment before he spoke again. "Is it true?"

"Grindelwald?"

Potter nodded.

"Yes, though I would not say the _Prophet_ gave the most balanced depiction. Did you not know about it?"

"No, not at all. Albus never told me." He was silent. Snape observed Potter's face as discretely as he could. There was an ironic edge in the press of the lips, something that was entirely foreign to the Potter he remembered from four years ago. He wondered if he had noticed it twenty-five years ago.

"I see Albus kept secrets from you as well," Snape said.

"Yeah. The old liar." Potter put down the paper with a shake of his head. "I'm still surprised by what a shoddy hypocrite he was."

Snape frowned. "Albus?"

"Yeah, who else? I mean, he was madly in love with Grindelwald, or at least it seemed so, and all sorts of crap happened because of that. But he kept trying to keep me from having anything to do with you back then."

"I have no recollection of him taking so much interest in my love life."

"That's because I didn't tell you." Potter stopped abruptly, the Snape found himself curling his lips at the expression on the other man's face.

"Clearly." He took another piece of toast and began lathering on marmalade.

"Severus—"

"Don't apologize. Please."

The knife rasped against the edge of the toast like an old blade.He was always fastidious with his food; it came from the same instincts that directed him as he diced mandrakes, or cut gillyweed with the precision of light through a windowpane.

"Albus told me about Grindelwald a year after I joined the Death Eaters," he said. "I'd already killed a few Muggles by then. Two, I think, a woman and an old man. And an Auror that they'd caught loafing around Malfoy Manor."

"Oh."

Snape curled his lips. "Albus gave a rather contrived speech about how love can really blind someone, even to the end, and how difficult it was to finally defeat him."

"Grindelwald?"

"Obviously." He turned the toast in his hand, realizing with annoyance that it was impeccable now, and he would have to eat it. "Interestingly he was the only person on the side of the light who was of the same persuasion."

"You mean—?"

"Gay. Homosexual. The Death Eaters, on the other hand, were rather different. As long as you were reasonably attractive, meaning you weren't an ogre by the name of Crabbe, Goyle, Nott or Carrow, you were a pouf."

"I… had no idea." Potter fidgeted. "I always thought… well, I never really thought about it. I—don't think I was this way before I went back."

"Gay?"

Potter nodded. "Yeah, that."

"Probably Voldemort's influence, then."

Snape glanced up at the other man. The ugly fluorescent bulbs were off, and light from the garden window had flung itself across the walls, ghosting over the countertop and across Potter's chalk-white face like a diaphanous wing. Snape dropped his gaze to his half-eaten toast, for a moment having forgotten how to chew.

"Actually, I thought about that for a time, back then," Potter said. "The twenty-years-ago then."

"Mm."

"I decided… I decided that it can't matter. I mean, I've always had a bit of Voldemort in me, with the scar and everything." He made an aborted gesture at his forehead, and another aborted attempt at smiling. "I can't trace everything back to Voldemort."

"No. That would be morally bankrupt of you."

Potter nodded. "Yeah."

Snape finished the toast and wiped his hands. He could hear his rapid heartbeat only beginning to subside, gradually leaving him aware of his mind's fragmented ambivalence. This was a more eventful morning than he had had in a long time, discounting those spent in Zabini manor.

"I have some matters to attend to today," he said, standing. "I presume you won't need warnings about my potions laboratory?"

"Er—no. I'll stay out of it."

"Good. I'm afraid you won't find much of anything of interest in my flat, unless you would like to handle the owl post. Currently they're hopelessly lost, but if you like…"

"Owl post?" Potter's eyes widened as he glanced at the _Prophet_ article. "Ah—no. They can stay lost."

"Good. There are some books in my bedroom that you may wish to peruse. I will see you again tonight, Mr. Potter."

"Don't call me that, Severus—"

"Mr. Frost, then."

Potter stood. "Jonathan. Call me Jonathan."

Potter's hands were held palms facing outwards. Snape noted, fingertips resting on the tabletop, as though for support. Snape swallowed and tried to work the name—any name—into his mouth, onto his lips.

"Frost," he managed. Then he turned and stalked out of the room, angry and disappointed for reasons he did not want to think about. "You're lucky I'm not calling you Mr. Riddle," he barked as he took down the pot of Floo powder. "Diagon Alley!" He stepped in, a tingling at the back of his neck the suppressed feeling of not turning around, or a silent gaze from two doorways away.

qp qp qp

"Ginny," Hermione said, looking up with a smile. "How are you?"

"Not bad." She smiled. "I just dropped Aaron a visit in St. Mungo's."

"And?"

"Well." Ginny shrugged and sat in the chair next to Hermione's desk. "They had to remove his bones and grow them over again because of the Bone-Shattering Hex, so we can't exactly go on a real date. But…" Her face dissolved into a grin. "You know, he looked quite terrified when he asked me out. I didn't tell him that you'd warned me."

"Good, or I don't know if he'd ever forgive me," said Hermione. She tapped her wand onto the teapot on her desk. "You are a terror sometimes, Ginny."

"Only sometimes." She shifted in her seat. "He told me about his dad."

Hermione nodded, a grim look on her face. "Did he?"

"He told you too, right?"

"Yes."

"He's really—calm about," Ginny said, frowning. "I'd never be so forgiving. I mean, to lie to your wife and kids for so long, and then abandon them for your gay lover."

"You have to remember how difficult it is for them," Hermione said. "Gay people, I mean."

"I know, but still." The teapot turned a light red, and began pouring tea into teacups by itself.

"What do you think of Harry and Severus?"

Ginny shrugged and took a cup of tea. "I don't know. I don't think anyone knows what to think. It's supposed to be okay to be gay, as long as you produce children anyway like a proper witch or wizard. But that was before the war and we started doing Muggle things, and wizards became more open about things like that."

"Muggles aren't exactly the accepting type either, but I see your point."

"Yeah. Actually one of the first things I thought was if this was why Harry and I never got together." Ginny gave a wry, somewhat sheepish grin. "If he was gay along, that'd at least assuage my ego."

"Yes," said Hermione, busying herself with her teacup. "That would explain things."

"You were around him a lot, do you think he was gay back then?"

"Well…" Hermione frowned and blew air on the surface of the tea. "There was Cho," she said carefully. "And then there was war, and nobody knew anything about anyone's sex life."

"Really. I knew all about your sex life."

"Ginny…"

"Hm. And Professor Snape."

"Yes, and Professor Snape," said Hermione.

Ginny sat back and crossed her arms over her chest. "You knew all along, didn't you?"

Hermione set down her teacup and met Ginny's eyes. "About Severus's sexuality, yes, for a few years at least. About Harry… not once before he disappeared."

"Disappeared or went back in time?"

"I told you, Ginny, there are some things I can't tell you—"

"But why not?" Ginny sighed. "Sorry, it just seems so ridiculous. I mean, if there wasn't anything to hide, I don't see why you and Harry and Professor Snape aren't just telling the truth. But I don't believe any of that filth the _Prophet_ comes up with. I mean, 'mysteriously disappeared?' And two people, none of whom we've heard of. They must've done a lot of digging to come up with a story like that."

"A lot of digging, yes."

Ginny stopped and considered Hermione, the light blue shawl she had on her shoulders, the expectant bulge of her belly. Her hair was swept back and knotted firmly at the nape of her neck, so severely that the fierce curls looked almost mosaic-like against her head.

"I don't get it. I don't get it."

Hermione reached out a hand. "Ginny…"

"No, I don't get it," Ginny said, standing up before Hermione could touch her arm. "The war is over. Voldemort is dead. There shouldn't be any more of this hiding. I could understand if it's for your Department, or for Auror business, but it's not, it's Harry."

"Ginny, it isn't necessarily about Voldemort."

Ginny relaxed her shoulders for a moment, before tensing again. "Necessarily!" She pivoted on her heel and paced the room. "I wish I could throw something," she hissed.

"Oh, Ginny…" Hermione said and began attempts to stand up.

"Please," Ginny muttered, leaning over and putting a hand on Hermione's shoulder. "You look like an elephant trying to get off the ground."

"I'm sorry," said Hermione. "I know how you feel, but I really… I don't want to say anything before I'm sure of it. And maybe there really isn't anything to say."

"Harry is five hundred times more powerful than Hogwarts," Ginny said in a hollow voice. "I remember, when we calculated Voldemort's strength after the rituals, that it was a few hundred times that of Stonehenge. They're about the same, aren't they?"

"Ginny—"

There was a knock on the door.

"Come in," Hermione said.

Jack Demme entered, a few photographs in his hand. "Sorry for intruding," he said with a glance to both women, "but perhaps you would be able to help us. Especially you, Granger."

"Yes?" Hermione said, tapping her desk with her wand. The teapot and teacups hopped away, and Demme put an opened envelope on the table. Ginny leaned forward for a better look.

"It was originally addressed to a certain Severus Snape," said Jack Demme, "but with a secondary recipient if Snape could not be found."

"And I'm the secondary recipient?" Hermione said.

"Yes. These were the envelope's contents," said Jack Demme, putting two photographs on the table.

"Huh," said Hermione.

Ginny bit her lip. The pictures were of a young man, stripped naked, with chains wrapped around his neck, wrists, and ankles. The lighting seemed to come from somewhere far off and half-blocked, for the face was difficult to make out, and it was uncertain if the streaks across the pale torso were blood or dirt.

"Do you know who it is?"

"Oh!" Ginny said with a start. "I do."

"Do you?"

"And I do," Hermione said in a grim voice.

"Ah, both of you do," Jack Demme said dryly.

"It's that boy who helped us get to Harry at Zabini manor," Ginny said.

"Yes," Hermione said. "Niles. If my intelligence is correct, this boy could be of great importance. Do keep an eye on him, Demme."

"I see."

"And I'll get these photographs to Severus," Hermione said, slipping them back into the envelope. "Although I don't think he's going to appreciate it, really…"

"Should I even try asking what's going on?" said Ginny, after Jack Demme had left and shut the door behind him.

Hermione sighed. "Ginny, please. I'm sorry, but—"

"I know," Ginny interrupted. She smiled with effort. "It's just like old times again."

qp qp qp

Snape stepped out of the fireplace with a sigh. The silence always seemed deafening after the mindless throb of dance floor music. As he had expected, his efforts in the dens had been unsuccessful. Yes, the White Knight's agents had caught wind of a disturbance from above; no, they were not abandoning their positions (crackle trade was too lucrative); and no, nobody had seen that boy, though they had seen several that matched his description. If Mr. Vasse were so inclined, perhaps he could just take a walk through the alley a few streets down, where he could find plenty of such boys—? And just why was a mort customer so filled with questions—?

There had been no talk of the _Daily Prophet_, though Snape did not think the night crowd was the sort to chitchat about current events. Even the apothecary he had visited earlier was silent. It was a small blessing for a difficult day: a day, he thought grimly, that had not ended yet.

He crossed the sitting room, and then stopped with a frown. There was a noise coming from Potter's room, like garbled voices. He took a few more cat-like steps before realizing that it was music.

Snape grunted and swept into his potions laboratory. Trust Potter to pry into his room during his absence.

"_Finite incantatem_," he muttered, and the bundle of purchases swelled to its normal size. Monkweed would need to go into thecool cupboard, and the armadillo duodenum had to stay in darkness… He could still hear, from the other room, a tendril of music, curling and uncurling like a finger of mist in the last hours of morning.

He stepped into the hallway. The darkness was complete, except for the red-orange crack under the door, which seemed to flicker… It must be that the light was coming from the fireplace, Snape thought. He knocked gently.

"May I come in?"

There was a moment's pause, and the music ceased. "Please do."

Snape turned the knob and stepped inside. The fire was blazing brightly in the hearth, and the room was warm, almost stuffy. The bed, which had been neatly made just two nights ago, looked like a torn-open envelope, with sheets and pillows bundled haphazardly and hanging from the edge. There was a chair near the fire, and Potter was slouched in it, radio at one side, and a wine glass in his hand.

Snape frowned as he closed the door behind him. "I see you've appropriated a few items during my absence."

Potter nodded. "Yes. Sorry."

"There's no need to apologize. Is that… yes, that's the Pinot Noir that Albus gave me."

"Oh, I didn't…" Potter picked up the bottle and squinted at the label. "I'm sorry if you didn't want me to drink that."

"No need, Potter," Snape said. The bottle was about a third empty. He glanced critically at the other man; it was hard to tell what Potter's complexion was in the fiercely red light, and Potter seemed always to slouch like that.

"I didn't know you listen to Muggle music."

"I don't," Snape seated himself carefully on the edge of his bed and examined the wooden bin that was packed with audio tapes. "These were my father's. He enjoyed music."

"Oh. I see." There was a pause before Potter leaned over and picked up two items from the floor. "Hermione dropped by while you were gone and gave me these."

"Ah, my wand," Snape muttered. "Finally. I'll have to give Granger my thanks, and Miss Weasley as well—" He stopped, eyes fixed on the photographs in his hand. "Pardon me."

"You know who he is?"

Snape nodded. "You looked at these?"

"The envelope was open when Hermione gave it to me," Potter said. His head was inclined at an angle such that the shadows around his face and throat seemed particularly hollow. "She told me to tell you not to do anything Gryffindorish."

"She needn't have worried," Snape said, shoving the photographs back into the envelope. "I am not a reckless idiot."

Potter brought the wineglass to his lips in a measured, deliberate movement, and emptied it. "Severus," he said slowly, "is that boy…" He stopped.

"Yes?" Snape said, voice icy.

"Who is that boy?"

"Someone I met rather recently," Snape said curtly. "I believe he may be of great importance to us, especially with regards to how Zabini found out a few things that have recently made their way into the_Daily Prophet_."

"Met? Where?"

"I don't believe that is any of your business, Potter."

There was a snapping noise. "Not any of my business!" Potter shouted.

Snape frowned and stared at the other man's hands. "Potter, you've broken my wineglass."

"Sorry."

Snape lifted his wand, but before he could summon the incantation, Potter held the glass in his palm. "There. Fixed."

"Huh," Snape muttered. Wandless magic of an unimaginable caliber. All coiled inside this man with feverish eyes and a hollow face that looked almost too young to have gone through so much, too old to still be on the earth.

"So. You said you met this boy?"

"Yes," Snape said in clipped tones. "He was involved in a potions transaction I made a week or so ago." He paused before continuing. "He is only fifteen, but already addicted to crackle. I tried to help him, and I do not know if I succeeded."

Potter digested this in silence. "So what was that about? The photographs."

"He helped us find you in Zabini manor," Snape said softly. "If not for him, you would probably still be sleeping in a chunk of ice, or perhaps swimming in a crackle-induced haze."

"But he addressed the photos to you."

"Yes, because I helped free you, Potter. Zabini does not like me, and he knows that I would rather not see the boy die."

Potter grunted and shifted uncomfortably. "So he…" He paused. "You and he, you weren't—" He paused again. "Anything?"

"You, Potter, are a Gryffindor, not a Slytherin or Ravenclaw," Snape said coldly. "Good sense and intelligence are foreign to your brain."

"Sorry!" Potter said, throwing up his hands. "What was I supposed to think? I mean—" He indicated the envelope and gave a weak, shaky laugh, and then let his hands fall limply to his side. There was a pause. "You're staring at me, Severus."

"Mm." Snape leaned forward and began flipping through the tapes in the bin. "Hand me the tape recorder, Potter."

"Here," Potter said, and heaved the recorder to Snape's feet. "You're going to listen to something?" he asked, sounding almost cheerful after the emptiness of his earlier tone.

"Yes I am," Snape replied, and looked up. "And you are going to, as well." Snape switched the cassettes and pressed play.

Potter recoiled with a shout.

"Wrong place," Snape muttered.

"What's that? It sounded like…"

"It's an opera," Snape interrupted. "You might have heard of it. It's called _Madame Butterfly_, by Giacomo Puccini."

"Hm. Maybe."

"The story is simple and melodramatic. A Japanese girl falls in love with an American sailor in nineteenth-century Nagasaki. He leaves after a tryst, intending never to return, but she believes his promises and clings, pathetically, to the hope that he will come back to her."

"How does it end?" Potter asked, after a rather heavy silence.

"Badly. This should be about the right place…" He stopped, and turned down the volume. "Just a bit further. That was the love duet."

Snape kept his eyes on the rapidly turning wheel of magnetic tape. Out the corner of his vision, he could see Potter fidgeting. "So does the American sailor return at some point?"

"Yes, he does, towards the end. Ah!" he said, turning up the volume and sitting up abruptly. "Here it is. It's called, 'Un bel di, vedremo.'"

Potter frowned. "I thought it was called _Madame Butterfly_."

"The aria, not the opera," Snape hissed. "Aria—Italian for song—"

He stopped. A voice had begun, spinning out of the pluck of a harp and the thin halo of strings. Down a minor third, up again, down, and lifting halfway with a major second. Accompanied by the solo violin, touching the perfect fourths, and then settling, still lower, on a note backed by a faint chord of woodwinds.

"'One fine day, we'll see'"—Snape said quietly—"'a strand of smoke arising over the distant horizon of the sea. And then the ship appears, the white ship. It enters the port and rumbles its salute.'" The music swelled, became louder, and the voice arced upwards, gained the brilliance of a clarion. "'Do you see it?'" Snape continued, his voice tight, his eyes fixed on the cassette player. "'He is coming. But I will not go down to meet him, not I.'"

The voice descended, almost shyly, becoming solitary except for the alternating chords of the horns. "'I stay on the edge of the hill and wait a long time,'" Snape went on, "'but I do not grow tired of the long wait.'"

His gaze flickered upwards. Potter was sitting tensely, gripping tightly the arms of his chair, the expression on his face unfathomable for so quick a glance. Snape leaned back. "She—Butterfly—continues with her fantasy of what she will do once her American sailor returns. Hide herself for a while, hear him call for her as he climbs up the hill."

The music was now so quiet that the cracks from the fireplace could be heard again. Snape glanced up again, this time keeping his gaze. Potter was staring at him, his mouth open a little, his brows furrowed to form the dimmest of shadows above his eyes.

"She says, 'I will stay hidden,'" Snape said, '"A little to tease him, and a little'"—the voice, alone, quiet, became louder, and leapt to a searing high note—"'so as not to die at this our first meeting.'" Snape swallowed. He let his gaze drop back to the cassette player at his feet and continued, "'A little troubled, he will call for me, call the names he called me before.'"

The music had softened, rounding itself into an intimate tone, like water cupped in a hand. But a moment later, it changed into the urgency of a gathering gale. Snape opened his mouth, but shut it without saying anything. The voice was flinging itself higher and higher above the strings, swelling until the room was nothing but the voice and the music and the proud, deluded hope. Then the final note rang, almost drowned by the relentless flood of the orchestra, and Snape shut his eyes. He had forgotten this music. He was not like Butterfly. He was nothing like Butterfly. His hope had not been proud and unrepentant. It had been small, forbidden, forgotten, damnably persistent. And now it was gone, no longer a hope but a reality, sitting in a chair in front of him and staring at him with an expression torn between bewilderment and pain.

Snape stopped the tape. "You can listen to the whole thing if you wish," he said. "It's a very good recording: Maria Callas, Herbert von Karajan."

"Severus… I'm sorry."

Snape almost chuckled. "Give me the Pinot, Potter. I will need it if you continue to apologize like a first-year Hufflepuff."

Potter handed over the bottle. "You can use my glass, if you don't mind."

"I don't." He poured himself half a glass and drank it in slow sips. The fire seared his eyes comfortably, and the room was both hot and smoky. He wondered if Potter was going to sleep with the room as stuffy as a classroom in summer.

"If it's any consolation, I didn't want to be frozen for this long… or at least, I didn't want it consciously." Potter bit his lower lip and glanced up with an unfathomable expression. Snape met it, his own face neutral. "I don't even know what happened, really. One moment—one moment I was at Hogwarts, and then I wanted for everything to go away—the pain, the future—"

"You could have changed the future," Snape said evenly.

"I know!" Potter said, throwing his hands down. He stood up. There was not nearly enough room to pace. "I knew, and I didn't do anything." He ran his hands through his hair. The forehead, Snape noticed, was completely bare. "I didn't think I could do it—not whether I had enough magic to do it, but if I actually could."

Snape gave a skeptical grunt.

"I was scared."

"You? Scared?" Snape let his lips curl in a sneer. "It would be a plausible excuse from anyone else, but you, as much as you would rather not admit it, are Harry Potter."

Snape felt the bed lurch as Potter sat heavily next to him. "Have you ever thought, Severus, what it would be like to have more power than you could possibly imagine? Let me tell you—it's terrifying."

"Power corrupts," Snape said, holding the wineglass to his mouth. "Absolute power corrupts absolutely."

"I hope not," Potter muttered. "But I couldn't bring myself to do it. I was scared of what else I might do, being so… powerful. And at that point, I could have done anything."

Except change that blind alley called the future, Snape thought, but said nothing.

"I'd already killed Lestrange, and got Matellan killed—"

Snape held himself very still. It was one thing to know that those had happened, but to hear it—

Potter had stopped. He was staring intently at the fireplace, hands clenched into fists on his knees. Then he broke the pose, sitting back and taking a shuddering breath. "And other things, as well." There was a pause. "So that's why I was afraid. I was afraid of what I could do, or might do, and—that you would hate me for them."

"Well…"

"I know," Potter interrupted, "you're hating me now for what I made you go through and there's nothing I can say to that. You're right. I—deserve your hatred."

Snape sighed. "Potter, please stop this diatribe. It's foolish and wearying." He poured himself another half glass, trying his best to keep his hands steady.

Potter shook his head. "You have every right to hate me, Severus… But you have to understand!" Snape made an annoyed grunt; Potter had grabbed his upper arm, almost making him spill the wine. "I know it was nothing compared to what you went through, but it was hard for me too. It hurt every time to think of it."

"You were asleep, Potter. You didn't feel anything, or think of anything."

"No, before that," Potter said softly. "That's why I went into the ice, I think. I couldn't bear being awake and knowing what I had done."

"I daresay that was rather cowardly of you, Potter."

"Yes."

"How very unprecedented."

"You mattered too much."

Potter was sitting much too close, and Snape could see, from the corner of his eye, the other man's gaze fixed on him. Snape could feel sweat beginning to soak the back of his undershirt, trickling down the sides of his torso. He turned his head to tell Potter to move aside, but the words evaporated. Potter had darkened the color of his eyes, or they seemed different in the uncertain half-light of the fire. They looked almost reddish, Snape thought as their lips met.

They drew apart an indeterminable moment later, both breathing heavily. Potter's tongue flickeredout to lick his lower lip. The movement was quick, almost imperceptible, unsettling. Snape could feel Potter's breath on his neck, layering itself on the sheen of sweat that had gathered on his skin. They were completely alone here, Snape thought; it was almost as it had been all those years ago, in the dormitory, when the most casual of touches would send a sliver of ice down his spine. His gaze darted to Potter's own inquiring look, the familiar and unfamiliar hand resting palm-down on the coverlet, the fire flickering almost with shapes.

For a moment neither of them moved, and then Potter leant back and laughed weakly. "That was… nice. Just like twenty-five years ago."

"Indeed," Snape said. "Not so long for you." He stood, deliberately, the Pinot in one hand and the wineglass in the other. "I think… I will be retiring for the night. Shall I take these back?"

Potter rose and moved, slowly, to the chair next to the fire. "No. Leave them, please." There was an inscrutable smile on his face when he turned around. "It's a very good wine."

"I wouldn't recommend drinking alone," Snape said. He felt Potter's eyes circling his face, moving down his neck, to the steady poise of his arms, back up to the shoulders, and then, unseeingly, to his eyes.

"No," Potter said at last. "I won't stay up too long." He stepped forward, reaching out with both hands to take the wine and wineglass, and Snape found himself swallowing as their fingers touched. "Good night."

"Good night," Snape said. He strode to the door, let himself into the much-cooler hallway, and watched the panel of light disappear.

Heat still clung to him. He padded into the bathroom and flicked on the lights. The fluorescent glare struck the walls, the mirror, the sink like a dry wind. He stared at his reflection. The face that peered back looked old, haggard. There were lines about his mouth that he had not taken the trouble to notice before; at his temples, there were streaks of gray and white. The eyes were still as black as coal, but they seemed to come from somewhere long ago, shard-like remnants staring out of a distant time. Snape turned the tap and splashed water on his face; each handful felt icy, stale. He leaned closer to the mirror and frowned, still staring, as though the unwavering black eyes he saw could give him an answer from the airless past.

* * *

_ A/N: Thanks again to Procyon for the really speedy speta!_

_A/N2: It's the holiday season. Please leave a review! _


	9. Four Requests

**Chapter 9: Four Requests  
**

Snape eyed Granger's living room critically. It looked disgustingly Muggle, with electric lights in the shape of cones and saucers, and a coffee table made of glass. The only things magical were the fireplace—a proper stone monstrosity—and the umbrella, which Snape recognized was a warding key.

"Sorry," said Granger, waddling into the room. "Robert was on the phone. He always forgets to take the shopping lists."

Snape grunted. "You asked for me?"

"Yes, I did. Tea?"

Snape declined.

"How's the potion coming along?"

Snape frowned. He decided to refrain from pointing out that the question was vaguely insulting. "Granger," he barked, "get to the point."

She sighed and lowered herself into an armchair. "How's Harry?"

"Sleeping, for all I know."

"_Do_ you know?"

There was a pause.

"Yes," Snape said at last.

He let himself reflect upon the fact that he was, on this Saturday morning, standing in Granger's very Muggle living room, answering questions that might just as easily be answered via Floo. Just as easily, if it wasn't so important being not overheard. He understood the implications all too well, and he was not sure if he was at ease with the fact that he was complicit with them.

"We're going to have to give a press conference," Granger announced.

Snape curled his lips. "More Gryffindor posturing?"

"I should think that's preferable to more made-up rumors about the past."

Snape grunted.

"And Harry is well?"

"You could ask him yourself."

A beat. "I could," she said, and at least had the good grace to sound embarrassed. It was enough of a concession that Snape relaxed his shoulders and said, at last, what he'd been wanting to say for a while,

"Do you suppose that it is possible—"

He stopped.

"Yes?" Granger said.

"That Potter, in that empty skull of his, may have entertained the ridiculous possibility—" He stopped again, but went on before Granger could prompt him once more in that irritatingly amused tone of voice. "That the boy, Niles, is some sort of threat or competition for attention, or affection, or some other pathetically immature thing?"

The amused smile, Snape was displeased to note, stayed on Granger's face, but there was seriousness as well.

"I think that he's certainly thought of that. I think that anyone at all in his position would—it's human nature after all, isn't it?"

"And I suppose the Department of Mysteries is all about that," Snape said drily.

"Oh come on. Harry's more… Slytherin that you think—even before the whole Voldemort thing."

Voldemort thing, indeed. Trust such a phrase to come from a Gryffindor.

"What matters is whether he chooses to act on it or not."

Snape frowned. He was reminded, and the memory was not a good one, of someone else who'd used a similar collection of words: It's not who we are that matters, but who we choose to be. Damn Dumbledore and his Gryffindor helpers. Too bad his idiocy didn't die with him in the madhouse.

"Very well—do you think it's in Potter's nature to act in an objectionable manner to such urges?"

Granger gave him a helpless smile in return, and Snape realized just how stupid his question had been.

"Severus, you're the last person to have known him," she said.

"Of course," Snape muttered. It was true. He was so used to the Potter of many friends, many allies, many starry-eyed fans. Even after they'd smoothed out their hostility, it'd been a nuisance. No. This Potter was different. This was Jonathan Frost.

Snape shivered. The name alone was enough to rub a raw spot in his chest. It was like an instinct. A response.

"Very well," said Snape. "First order of business: a press conference. What shall we feed the press?"

"The truth," Granger said, with noticeable reluctance, "except for the Voldemort parts. We'll say it was a backlash from Voldemort's death."

"And Lestrange and Matellan?"

Granger hesitated. "We'll say that only Dumbledore knows."

Snape snorted again. "How convenient," he said. "And"—he paused—"the affair with a nefarious 'then-Death Eater'?"

"That's up to you."

"Thank you," Snape said shortly. "Then the world can know that it was all a bucket of lies."

It felt good to say that, Snape thought as he stepped through into the Floo. Good in a way that he couldn't readily put a name to, and in a way that, deep down, he wasn't sure he didn't hate.

qp qp qp

Snape stopped abruptly in the doorway. "Good morning," he said.

Potter smiled and nodded. "Morning."

"I trust you slept well?" Snape said and moved to the cabinet, where he could make tea and keep his back to Potter's eyes.

"Yeah. Just a bit—you know."

A pause. Snape frowned. "What?"

"Lonely," Potter said with a shrug.

Snape snorted and turned away, although Potter's expression stayed in his mind, like the aftereffects of looking at the sun. There'd been a shyness in the downturned eyes, but also a latent confidence, or perhaps sensuality, in the curve of the lips.

He ripped the tea bag with his hand and filled the mug with water. "Did you have breakfast already?"

"Yeah. Lots of it. Where were you?"

The timing was such that the question seemed almost innocuous, as though it were a perfectly natural part of a Saturday morning conversation.

"I was talking with Granger," Snape answered smoothly, bring the water to a boil. "We were discussing a Potion she wants me to make."

"A Potion?"

"Yes. It's to determine whether or not Fred Weasley has been regularly Obliviating the rest of his family."

"Er…"

He sat down now and let his eyes meet Potter's. It was safer, now that their conversation was on Weasley, but it wasn't completely safe: Potter was wearing only a bathrobe. Snape swallowed. He looked away, and so couldn't tell if Potter was smiling in the ensuing pause.

"Yes," he went on, "there's been a few things that've happened while you were on holiday up north."

Potter laughed. "Holiday? So, wait, Hermione thinks Fred's been Obliviating the other Weasleys? Why?"

"To cover up his vigilante activities," Snape said, in a use-your-head-for-once tone.

"Oh."

"We also discussed the matter of a… press conference," Snape said, and carefully let their eyes meet again. This should be safe, he thought.

Potter's eyes, on the other hand, became much warier. "Press conference?"

"I trust yesterday's headlines have not completely slipped your memory yet?"

"No, not yet," Potter said. He sounded almost thoughtful. "So what're we sticking to?"

"Nothing about Voldemort, and that only Dumbledore—who is conveniently now crazy—can have the last word on Lestrange and Matellan."

"And…?"

"That the rumors of a love affair were just fodder for rags like _Witch's Weekly_ and the like." Snape snorted. "We might have been close friends, if you like, but that will be all."

Potter was silent. Time to look down, Snape thought, and looked down at his tea. His distorted reflection stared back.

"Severus—"

He stopped, as though waiting for Snape to say something. But when Snape kept quiet, he went on.

"Severus, I can… understand if you're uncomfortable with the world knowing about—you, me. Us. But there's nothing to hide from. Merlin's beard, it's the _Man-Who-Killed-Voldemort_ that's your boyfriend. I bet if I endorsed buggering with manticores, the Ministry would promote that."

"No, I wouldn't be surprised by such idiocy from the Ministry," Snape said. "But as it is, I would like my private affairs not to be gutted across the tabloid press."

"It'd get out anyhow. Better to make a clean breast of it. And anyway—" He paused, went on. "Anyway, I want them to know that you're loved."

The laughter came out as a bark. "I've been _loved_ by enough people," Snape said. "You. Voldemort."

For a moment, he wondered if he'd gone too far. The silence stretched like a rubber band on the verge of snapping.

"That's low," Potter said at last.

Snape stirred his tea and sipped it. "Do be careful when you invite unfavorable comparisons if you don't want to hear them," he said lightly.

"Please, Severus…"

Snape stood. His tea was only half finished, but he went to the sink and poured it down.

"I'm afraid I have a rather tight schedule this weekend. There are books if you wish to cultivate yourself, and the rest of London if you want to join the masses."

He was at the door when he heard Potter's voice again: "Severus…"

He hesitated. At the surface, there was only wistfulness, an almost meek longing. But Snape could hear—or feel, or both—the coil of power beneath, writhing with unleashed frustration. He saw in his mind's eye Potter in the chair, bathrobe half open, arms relaxed: sensuous, powerful. Skin like marble. Eyes like a spell. Perhaps this was a spell, Snape thought. He set his jaw and closed his eyes.

"Tibby will see to your lunch," he said. "I might see you at dinner." Then he was gone.

qp qp qp

"Watch out!"

Ginny twisted her in midair and caught the Quaffle. She heard Aaron Skonser shout something as she soared through the cool twilight and down onto the lawn behind the Burrow.

"Wow," he said, when she drew alongside him, "I even put a Slippery Hex on it."

"I wasn't Chaser for nothing," Ginny said with a grin and tossing the ball back with a tricky underhand spin.

Aaron caught it, though barely. "Where'd you go learning this sort of thing?" he puttered. He pushed some of his hair from his forehead and said, "I'm going in for a minute. Would you like anything?"

Ginny shook her head. "Remember that the loo is on the left, not the right."

Aaron ducked his head, a bit embarrassed. Last time he'd been here, he had entered the twins' old room by accident, and gotten a pair of fake boobs as a result. It had taken them a few hours to spell down.

Ginny grinned at the memory. She liked Aaron Skonser. She had thought he'd be too bookish to think about romantically, but she had found that he had real mettle, and could even enjoy a good game of Quidditch or tankard of ale. He also wasn't an annoying brute like some of the men she'd dated. Of course, that meant he might be gay. But Ginny was pretty sure he wasn't.

She turned and tossed the Quaffle in the air. When she caught it, she found herself staring at her brother, Fred Weasley.

Her wand was out in a flash, but Fred didn't move.

"Hello Ginny," said Fred evenly.

She didn't reply for a long time, only stared at the familiar features she thought she knew. Finally, flatly: "Fred."

"What? No hug? No, 'So glad to see you Fred?" Her brother's face dropped, like the ending of a game of Exploding Snap, but Ginny couldn't tell if there wasn't an edge of mockery in it.

"Not funny," she snapped.

Fred sighed. "Would it help if I said I was sorry?"

Ginny laughed. "Sorry?" But her tone wasn't as hard now. She knew they both heard it. She knew, also, as she'd known all along in the last few brooding days, that she wished to forgive him—or at least hear him give a good enough excuse for being such a git.

"Yes. Sorry. I was a git."

He even looked earnest. "Why do you have such a vendetta against Hermione?"

"Ginny," Fred said, in a tone of infinite patience, "you know that she tries to thwart the Order at every step—"

"_Your_ Order. Not _the_ Order."

Fred was silent. For a moment, Ginny wondered if he was going to attack. But then he sighed and looked old—more like sixty than thirty.

"Fine. I'll admit it was a rather stupid thing for me to do. All right—downright slimy. But I thought it was for the best."

For the best. Yes, Ginny had heard that before, and from far too many people. "The problem," she said, lowering her wand carefully, "is that what you think is for the best doesn't exactly rub well on everyone else."

"I know." And then, "I saw you playing Quidditch."

Ginny nodded, still wary. "Yes."

"We haven't had a good game in quite a while."

"Fred, if you think I'm going up with you in the air after the stunt you pulled, you're mistaken."

"Wouldn't think of it," said Fred. His smile looked rather full of teeth. Then, just as it appeared, it went away, and Fred changed the subject entirely: "Do you remember how George and I used to use the old oak tree for hiding some of our stuff?"

Ginny frowned. "What does that—?"

"Do you remember, Ginny?"

What was this, Ginny wondered, some sort of Polyjuice test? "Actually," she said, frowning, "no, I don't remember." She paused. "I know you guys kept stuff in the broom closet downstairs, but not in the old oak."

Fred frowned. "Well," he said, slowly, "What about a different memory? Do you—"

"Fred, what are you doing?"

"Ginny, humor me for a moment, will you?"

The mocking edge was back. She was sure of it this time. Funny how she'd never noticed it before. Maybe that was because she hadn't had a proper conversation with Fred for months.

"I want to see how much you remember."

"Of what?"

"The past."

"No, _really_," Ginny snapped, exasperated. She wanted to stamp her foot in frustration, or at least cross her arms, but that'd break her from the Auror stance. "Fred," she said in a low, serious voice, hoping he'd get the message and stop joking around. It'd worked before, when George was still alive. "What do you want?"

Ginny could feel Aaron cross the lawn towards them, and saw Fred's eyes lift briefly, before he settled on an answer. "Just to see if you still remember the important things."

Aaron arrived before Ginny could do anything more than bite back her exasperation.

"Hullo," said Aaron. He sounded cordial but guarded. "Professor Weasley, I take it?"

"At your service," said Fred, and it was so much the way he used to say it that Ginny started, stayed still, and didn't move until the two men's hands were almost touching for a handshake. Then she jabbed her wand.

"Ow!" Aaron said. Fred only hissed.

"His hands are infected with git-ishness at the moment," Ginny said curtly, and tried not to let Fred's expression of betrayal upset her. She wanted to ask, Why is this even happening? We're brother and sister, damn it, and the last of the Weasley clan.

But Fred's face smoothed out and he said in a teasing voice, "Goodness me. Our little Ginny has really grown some teeth?"

It was all wrong, though, without a, '_Right, George?'_ at the end of it. But it'd never be right again: George was dead and gone, buried in the plot down in St. Ottery's. Why did Fred have to be such an idiot and start his own Order and try to bully his way around? It was only now, with Harry's crazy return and Hermione once again not telling her things (though probably for very good reasons), that she realized what she wanted—family.

Unfortunately, Fred wasn't going to give it to her. He'd drawn back and taken a couple of steps to the edge of the Burrow's wards.

"I'll see you Monday," he said, and was gone.

"Monday?" Ginny said loudly. "What's happening—?"

"Harry Potter's press conference," Aaron supplied.

"His press conference!" Ginny exploded, and a gold spark twitched up her wand. "Sorry," she said.

"That's all right. Go on."

"Well, I just wish Iknew what he wants, what he's planning."

They were both quiet for a moment. Politics, Ginny was thinking with an inward snort. This had always been Percy's game. Not hers, nor Ron's, nor anyone else's in the family. And a fat lot of good Percy's ambition had got them. A big family feud, that's what, and reconciliations that came too late, or would never come at all.

"Want to keep playing?"

Ginny shook her head. "No," she said. "Let's go inside."

"Okay," Aaron said quickly, and followed her back into the Burrow.

qp qp qp

Snape stood in a corner and sneered. It was usually easy to find something to sneer about, but today, the day of Potter's long-awaited "press conference," was exceptional. The Ministry room was not very big, but one end was furnished in a way to give an illusion of grandeur. That was the end where Potter now sat, flanked by Granger, the Weasley girl, and her new Muggleborn boyfriend, all of them smiling stiffly at the flashes and puffs of smoke.

Snape, on the other hand, was standing next to the entrance. It was something of an impromptu decision; Potter had thought that Snape would be up there, part of his sparkling Gryffindor retinue. Snape broke his sneer with a snort. Not a chance.

"NOW," boomed a magically amplified voice, "IF WE'LL—RATS."

That was Tonks and her typical grace. Snape caught sight of her spiky pink hair righting itself.

"IF WE'LL BEGIN?"

A hush whipped through the crowd.

One of the reporters in the front stepped forward. "Welcome back, Mr. Potter," she said. Someone applauded, another cheered, and then, to Snape's sickened amusement, the whole place was in pandemonium again.

"ARE WE DOING THIS OR NOT?" Tonks snapped.

The crowd hushed.

It would be funny if it weren't so nauseating, Snape thought. Granger seemed rather amused, although that might be because she had an aloofness about her that only pregnant women can achieve. The Weasley girl, on the other side of Potter, looked bored. Her Muggleborn boyfriend seemed ready to wet his pants in excitement.

Potter himself looked calm. He had dressed well for the occasion: a dark blue robe that looked expensive, and which had been fitted just yesterday. He looked, Snape thought, like money. The memory came to him—one he hadn't thought of in years—of those "parties," when Jonathan Frost had been the apple of the Dark Lord's eye. He remembered the encrusted glitter, the sinister revelry.

Snape shuddered. Frost had vanished from them—died, or so Snape thought. Snape had remained. And in the bowels of those manors, he'd lived a nightmare. Night after night of degrading himself in order to feed the vengeance in his heart, night after night of hatred. After it'd ended, he found that he had nothing left but ashes.

Snape looked up. Potter was gazing at him. The moment their eyes met, a hesitant smile sprang onto his face. Snape turned away.

"There's been a great deal of rumors as to where you've been in the last five years, Mr. Potter. Why don't _you_ tell us exactly what happened?"

"Well," said Potter. The crowd leaned forward. "I'm not too sure myself, as I was unconscious in a piece of ice the whole time." He smiled, which brought out one or two hesitant chuckles from the crowd. "I remember fighting Voldemort, and… a great burst of power."

He stopped.

Snape tensed, waiting. They had discussed yesterday what to tell the press. Or rather, he had discussed it with Granger, and then passed it to Potter. Granger had been in favor of telling the truth, minus the skeletons in the closet; Potter had wanted to tell them a lie—that he'd been frozen right after the battle with Voldemort, and had no recollection since.

It was unlike Potter to opt for a lie, even the beaten and broken, Potter who had consented to be the sacrificial lamb in the last attempt against Voldemort. That was Potter without Voldemort's soul.

Or was it? Snape knew, and knew better than anyone else, that memory was a tricky thing. It was possible that Potter's behavior only seem uncharacteristic because Snape was waiting for some trace of Voldemort to show itself. Only five years ago, he'd let his perception be distorted because he had been expecting some trace of James Potter in his son. Twenty years ago, he wouldn't have blinked if Jonathan Frost wanted to lie to the whole world.

Twenty years ago, he hadn't known anything.

"And then I was pushed twenty years into the past," said Potter.

The crowd ooh-ed and aah-ed. Snape shifted. He looked at Granger and the others; they had the good sense to look neither surprised nor pleased. His eye caught Potter's (again!, he thought irritably), and he quickly looked away.

"For a few months I stayed at Hogwarts under an alias," Potter went on, after enough silence had settled. "Then I realized I had to leave, or else I'd break the rules of time and try to change the future."

There was a lot of solemn nods at this. Everyone knew about the rules of time, how meddling could lead to disaster. There would be some who didn't agree, but to almost everyone's eyes, Potter would seem even more heroic. How nobly Gryffindor, to resist the temptations of meddling! Snape had been expecting this, but it didn't make the twist of anger any less. How little did they know, Snape thought.

This time, he kept his eyes on the floor of the stage.

"Is that why you froze yourself into a chamber of ice?" a reporter asked. "To keep yourself from changing the timeline?"

A pause, and then Potter nodded.

Much murmuring.

"Mr. Potter, welcome back to the Wizarding world. We have sources that tell us that you went to Hogwarts under the alias of 'Jonathan Frost.' Is that true?"

Potter nodded.

"And you were sorted into Slytherin House?"

Another nod. More murmuring. Snape recrossed his arms over his chest. They hadn't rehearsed this. He was interested to see how Potter—Frost, or even Riddle—would play this out.

"But when you went to Hogwarts in 19, you were sorted into Gryffindor House. Why the discrepancy?"

"I chose Slytherin. My parents were in Gryffindor. I didn't want to be tempted more than I needed to be."

Ah, clever answer, Snape thought. Bring up the memory of the Parents-Who-Sacrificed-Themselves. If it had been the old Harry Potter answering, Snape might merely have thought vindictively, How deliciously Slytherin! With Frost, he might have— No, he wouldn't even have judged. He had been too much in love.

"Was Dumbledore aware of your identity?"

"The Headmaster had some idea, but not exactly who I was. He understood I was from the future, and that I was on the side of the Light."

There was enough hesitation in the answer to seem genuine, but not enough to raise suspicion. It was so masterfully sly, so skillfully performed, that Snape should be admiring it. He wondered why he felt frightened instead. Was there even justification for the thought? Why could he not believe that it was merely Potter being Potter, rather than thinking that it was evidence of Voldemort's soul?

"There have been reports of your bearing the Dark Mark when you were rescued from the ice. Are those reports true?"

"Yes. I received them against my will when I was being tortured by Voldemort in the last battle."

More murmurs. Snape snorted. He could just imagine the owls of adulation Potter would receive tomorrow.

"Welcome back, Mr. Potter. Now that You-Know-Who is dead, what do you plan to do? Auror work? Quidditch?"

Potter smiled. "I really haven't had a chance to think about it. I know that I want to be a part of the Wizarding world, but I don't know what, yet."

"Congratulations, Mr. Potter, for your Order of Merlin, First Class. How does it make you feel? Gratified? Overwhelmed?"

Snape snorted. He could imagine Potter's answer: _Humbled to be given such an honor. I know I don't deserve it, that it's the work and sacrifice of many others who led to the Dark Lord's downfall. Albus Dumbledore. My parents_. Sniff, sniff.

"Grateful, of course," said Potter, with just enough of a smile to let people know that he didn't really care about such things. "There many who deserve it more than I do, or deserve even greater recognition." He paused. "Albus Dumbledore, of course. My friend Hermione Granger. Severus Snape."

Snape stiffened. He listened to the murmuring, which had an unknown quality to it. A few heads turned. He glared coldly.

"Congratulations, Mr. Potter, on your safe return." There was a pause. "Many of us are curious about the few months you spent at Hogwarts more than twenty years ago. Interestingly, during the time that you were there under the name of Jonathan Frost, Hogwarts experienced the mysterious disappearance of a student, Terrance Lestrange, and the death of a professor, Willa Matellan."

Murmurs in the crowd. Potter had a slight frown on his forehead.

Granger leaned forward. "Is there a question to this?"

"Yes. There have been reports that 'Jonathan Frost' was somehow connected to these disappearances. Mr. Potter, would you like to elaborate?"

Snape tried to make the speaker out in the crowd. It was a man's voice, and it seemed to belong to someone short, with nondescript brown hair.

"I was aware of those incidents, yes, but I was not connected with them," Potter said. "There were a lot of mysterious incidents at the time, given that it was the eve of Voldemort's first rise."

"There have also been reports hinting that you might have absorbed Voldemort's"—a gasp in the crowd—"powers during the last battle. Do you refute such claims?"

"It is the first time I have heard such claims."

"Interestingly, the Department of Mysteries recently invented a device call a trollerimeter, which has the capability to point in the direction of—"

Several things happened at once. Granger stiffened and extending her wand from her sleeve. It was a subtle movement. Snape touched his own wand in response. There was a brief pause, and then he felt the stirring of magic meeting in in the air.

"—strong magic," the reporter went on, as though nothing had happened. "It was revealed, Mr. Potter, that you possessed magic strong enough to disrupt even the earth's natural magical fields. Would you like to explain?"

Granger stood up. "The results of Department of Mysteries testing are a Ministry secret," she said. Her voice was level but angry. The crowd was surprisingly quiet. Obviously, thought Snape, they were too stupid to know how to respond. "You are both mistaken about these results, and committing a serious offense in attempting to declassify Ministry secrets." A moment later, she added, "Your leader, Fred Weasley, should know better."

Snape narrowed his eyes. Suddenly, everything was clear. He could see, above the crowd, Potter leaning over and muttering something in Granger's ear, and Granger saying something back. The Weasley girl looked livid.

"Ministry secret or not, the public has a right to know the truth about a man who is now more powerful than the earth itself, who may very well have—"

Snape flinched. Someone had just used a strong burst of magic.

"Cor—" the Weasley girl hissed, her voice amplified by the spells on the stadium. She clamped her mouth shut at the last minute, but continued to look enraged.

Even from where he was standing, Snape could see that the reporter was shifting, becoming taller and bulkier, his hair changing color. He was also now bound with ropes, which Snape hadn't noticed appearing.

"The Deparment of Secrets _has_ created a device called a trollerimeter, which acts much like a magical compass," Granger announced, as Tonks began leading the reporter away. The camera flashes were getting furious by now. "Mr. Potter is indeed a very powerful wizard, but the extent of his power his own business, as per the Magical Privacy Act. Thank you."

She sat down again. This should keep the _Prophet_ happy for a while, Snape thought dryly.

Potter leaned forward. "Anymore questions?"

A lot of muttering. They were probably dying to ask questions, Snape thought, just not those that would get them led away to the Ministry holding cells.

"Mr. Potter, do you have anything to say about—well, what just happened?"

Potter seemed to consider this. "Not really," he said. "I'm not too sure what he's talking about. I mean, I know I'm powerful, but not _that_ powerful…"

He offered a smile and got a vague chuckle from the crowd. Not very convincing, Snape thought, crossing his arms again over his chest.

"On a _completely_ different note, Mr. Potter"—this, Snape noted with a groan, came from a very made-up witch with lilac robes—"are the reports about your attachment with Severus Snape true?"

Attachment? Snape wanted to snort, but he was too conscious of the stares, real or imagined. Well, let them stare. He fixed a resolute sneer on his face and drew his arms closer around himself.

"Yes. They're true."

Snape wished that edging towards the door wouldn't look so much as though he were running away—which he _was_, but only from Potter's incredible …

"I do love him."

More sounds from the crowd. Someone cast a Killing Curse, please, Snape thought, feeling his face heat from an angry flush, and doing his best to drill a hole in the wall on the opposite side of the room with his stare.

"Well," the reporter said brightly, "congratulations to you both!"

That did it. Snape snapped out his wand. "Excuse me," he growled.

"Professor Snape? Professor Snape, a comment please—"

"_Impedimenta_," he snapped.

He was out the doorway when he turned around. He couldn't help it. His neck, his body, was a traitor. The entire room seemed to be drowned in the flash and smoke of cameras going _click! click!_ and reporters who were straining for a look at him, the fleeing, slimy Slytherin. But he found Potter's eyes all the same above it all.

Another quick smile, uncertain, almost desperate.

Snape turned away with a self-loathing growl. Fuck you Harry Potter, he thought, and then thought of Jonathan Frost, and then, to his horror, found that he wanted almost to cry.

qp qp qp

It was late when he finally got back. He would have stayed out later, perhaps renting one of the rooms in Diagon Alley under a false name and heavy disguise, but he had Granger's potion to tend.

The living room was empty. Snape stepped silently past the coffee table, hating himself and Potter even more for turning him into a tip-toeing stranger in his own flat.

He was in the hallway when he saw Potter in the kitchen. There was a bottle next to him. His back was turned. Good, thought Snape, walking as quietly as he to his potions lab. Now, if Potter would keep staring out at the countertop as he was doing now…

He slipped in. Surprisingly, he was left in peace for the next hour and a half. The potion turned clear from deep blue, as it was supposed to, and would be done after another night of brewing. Granger would be pleased.

He stepped into the hallway and stopped short.

"Severus."

"Potter," Snape said coldly. He turned, even though that hadn't been his plan, and walked into the toilet, and locked the door behind him.

That, he thought, was a rather immature thing to do. He didn't care. No. He did care. He wouldn't be the stupid boy who'd feuded with James Potter, who let his emotions get the better of him and fall madly in love with a stranger.

He turned and considered the door. On the other side was a man who could crush the world in one hand, who was equal parts Dark Lord and savior. On the other side was someone he had loved.

Potter had left the hallway. A few steps later, and Snape found him in the kitchen.

"Potter," he said smoothly.

"Snape."

He froze. Then continued, as though he hadn't just stopped in his tracks.

"I trust you've had dinner already?"

"Yes, thank you."

"Tibby," Snape called.

The house elf appeared and, as though by instinct, shrank away from Potter. "Yes, Master Snape?"

"I'd like some dinner. Something simple will be fine."

"Yes, sir," Tibby said, and disappeared.

They said nothing. Snape stared at the wall behind Potter. He could feel Potter's gaze on him, but he couldn't tell if it wasn't simply be his imagination. Snape could imagine the silence filled with thorns, spines, bits and pieces of glass.

"I told you I'm sorry," Potter said. "But clearly it's not enough."

"Indeed."

A platter of sausages and potatoes appeared on the table. Snape picked up his knife and fork and began methodically cutting the sausages.

"And you're right, of course," Potter said. "What I did to you was—terrible."

"Mm," said Snape. He could sound nothing from Potter's tone. "Good that you think so."

Potter spoke again after another pause. "There's a spell called _Perficio Compunctus_. If I cast it on myself, I will feel, over the course of twenty hours, the pain and suffering you felt in the last twenty years."

Snape brought a forkful of food to his mouth. The sausages were good, he thought.

"It was used for revenge in ancient Thebes," Potter continued, "often as the worst punishment possible. The punished man or woman often went mad afterwards."

Potter should shut up, Snape thought irritably, as he chewed and swallowed. He knew where this was going. It was either a ploy that he had no interest falling for, or an act of tremendous Gryffindor stupidity he wanted no part in.

"Severus, I want you to cast it on me."

"I would. Unfortunately, I don't think the Wizarding world would be terribly pleased that I drove their savior mad."

"There's an ancient rule to the spell. If the revenge is justified, the avenger can't be punished in return."

Snape grunted. Certainly, Potter had wronged him—wronged the world, even. He had let the timeline remain, even though it meant that the Wizarding world had to endure two wars against the Dark Lord. But in doing nothing, Potter might have avoided something even more terrible. Perhaps he had saved the world, perhaps he had not. Would the present world be worse if Potter hadn't been as cowardly as he'd claimed? Cowardice, foresight—none of it was clear cut, just as his own regard (he refused to use the word 'attachments') towards Potter were tangled and mired.

"Don't be an idiot," Snape said at last.

"I want your forgiveness, Snape."

Snape decided that he was not going to comment on this change of address. "I'm afraid my 'forgiveness' isn't something you can buy with a spell, Potter," he said. He felt annoyed. He didn't even know if it was justifiable to resent Potter in the first place; he only knew that, on some level, he did. Was it because Potter had lied and masqueraded his way into his affections? Or was it some vestige of his old loathing of James Potter? Anger that Jonathan Frost had left him for so long? Was it even resentment he was feeling? He was not a fool; he knew he was feeling a ridiculous jumble of things, more than he cared to name. Resentment was easy. Hatred was harder, because it was more terrible, and he didn't know whom he was hating, or why he was hating himself. And the opposite of that—

Ugh, Snape thought. How he detested emotions.

"There are four things you can do to work for my 'forgiveness,'" said Snape.

Potter looked up, surprised. Clearly, he hadn't been expecting this.

"Firstly, please refrain from asking me for forgiveness. It is irritating and useless."

Potter grinned. "I'm not surprised." He paused. "But it'll be hard."

Snape snorted. "Complaining already, I see. You really haven't changed at all." He went on before Potter could smile at the insult or do something equally stupid. "Secondly, stop Fred Weasley. I'm sure Granger has informed you of the details of his most recent actions."

"Yes."

"I don't think I need to explain"—even to you, Snape thought—"why you're eminently suited for this."

"The Boy-Who-Lived understands."

Snape snorted. It was too close to a laugh. But why shouldn't he laugh? Why shouldn't he let himself believe it was as it had been? Snape went on. "Thirdly, please…" He paused. Eliminate? Destroy? "Bring to a cessation the activities of Blaise Zabini, whom, as I've told you, is the head of an influential crackle ring."

Potter nodded.

"Last, rescue the boy whose photographs you saw yesterday."

Snape waited. Potter's face was still, completely devoid of expression. Then he inclined his head. "Fine."

"His name is Niles," said Snape.

Something of a smile worked its way onto Potter's face. "I see. Niles. No last name?"

"No," Snape said.

A moment later, Potter got up. "I'm turning in."

Snape nodded. "Good night."

"Good night."

Potter went down the hallway, opened the door, and disappeared. The door shut. There was no reason for Potter to look back, Snape thought. He bent over his dinner and ate the rest in silence.

* * *

_A/N: Please review! Thanks. :)_


	10. Requests Fulfilled

_A/N: Viele Dank (or something along those lines) to Procyon Black's speedy beta._

* * *

**Chapter 10: Requests Fulfilled**

"I have officially lost all my respect for you. And for my brother, of course, but that happened a few years ago already, let me tell you that!" Ginny stopped pacing, though she still had an overpowering urge to throw something at the wall. "_Why_?"

Cormac looked pale and tense. "Stop shouting at me. I already got enough of that from Jack."

"You haven't got enough of it from me yet," Ginny said grimly.

Cormac groaned. "Ginny…" He rubbed his face with the palms of his hands. "Later, okay?"

Ginny said nothing. Half of her wanted to drag Cormac to the nearest pub and buy him a few drinks. He looked an absolute wreck. Ginny remembered, suddenly, the pale, sullen-faced wreck Ron had been the year of the Triwizard Tournament. Cormac had the same look on his face.

"Look, I rarely see my brother, so I can't speak for him," Ginny said, "but I don't get it. I told you how Fred and the Minister practically forced Hermione to resign."

"Yes, I know—"

"So how can you still follow him around, like a bloody Death Eater bobbing after You-Know-Who?" Cormac blanched. Ginny sighed and paced a few steps. "He's my brother, but Merlin help me, after seeing the stuff he's been doing…" She stopped. "Strange, though. I can't remember a lot of it."

"_What?_"

Ginny turned. "What?"

"You said—never mind." Cormac's face closed. "It just… reminded me of something."

Ginny narrowed her eyes. "Really."

"Drop it, Ginny."

She shrugged; she knew Cormac well enough to know that she wouldn't be able to worm it from him when he was sounding like that. "Anyway, even you can't possibly think Harry's going to turn Dark, or be the next You-Know-Who, or something."

"No," Cormac said reluctantly. He looked about to say something else, but stopped.

Ginny said nothing. Cormac was in denial. That's what was bothering him.

"Well, anyway," Ginny said, "I'm heading to Hermione's."

"I've got to go, too."

"To Hogwarts?"

Cormac stopped. "How'd you know?"

Ginny rolled her eyes. "What does an underling do after completing his task? Report to his master." She left, ignoring the dark look Cormac gave her on her way out.

qp qp qp

"So what're we doing?"

"Waiting for Professor Snape," said Hermione. "He's bringing a potion."

"Right. Hey Aaron."

"Hiya, Ginny," Aaron said, grinning.

Ginny rolled her eyes as she took a seat next to him on the couch. "Merlin, that reminds me of— Never mind."

Aaron's grin only got wider. He was, Ginny noticed, wearing a shirt that had _VARSITY ARITHMANCY_ emblazoned across the front. "Of what?"

"Some blokes I met at Hogwarts." The Creevey brothers, Ginny remembered, both of whom— She stopped her thoughts. It was dangerous to remember the victims of the War.

The fireplace turned green. Snape stepped through a moment later.

"Professor Snape," Ginny greeted.

"Miss Weasley," he said coolly but politely.

"How's Harry?"

"As good as can be supposed."

Ginny nodded. It wasn't a very informative response, but she'd expected as much from Snape.

"I've the potion," Snape said, to Hermione.

She nodded and turned to Ginny and Aaron. "Severus has kindly brewed us the Wieder-Denk Potion." She hesitated. "I told you about it, Aaron. Do you remember what it does, Ginny?"

Ginny frowned. A memory tugged at her mind from during the War. "Detect the presence of an Obliviate?"

"Exactly." Hermione paused again, and then glanced at Snape. Ginny frowned, following the glance, but Snape's face gave nothing away. "Ginny," Hermione said, and she was no longer using her Department Head voice; Ginny was reminded sharply of the fact that, for all the maternal calm that Hermione exuded, they were only one year apart. "I think you should take it."

Ginny blinked. "_Me?_ Why?"

"We think… someone's been Obliviating you."

"Who told you that? Jack?"

Hermione shook her head, the strained look still on her face. "No, just me, though Severus agrees with my theory."

Ginny glanced at Snape, but his face, as usual, was shuttered. Aaron was frowning slightly; did he know about this? Ginny wondered wildly. She looked away. It'd been a while since she'd felt this way.

"All right," she said lightly. "Why not?"

Snape shook his head. He took out a vial of something that looked poisonously green. "The procedure is simple," he said. "Hold this amount of the potion in your mouth for half a minute. Spit it here"—he pointed to a gold-colored cup—"and we'll analyse the magical signature."

Ginny nodded. "It's like what they did when I got tested for magical herpes," she said, smiling wryly at Hermione. Aaron, beside her, made a choking noise. "Here goes," Ginny said.

"Do refrain from swallowing," Snape said as Ginny tilted her head back.

It tasted rather minty, Ginny thought. One, two, three…

"Not yet," Snape said when she reached for the cup, looking a bit disapproving. Ginny remembered that he'd always commented on her bad sense of timing in Potions class. She felt a blush coming, and would have resented it if Snape hadn't so obviously curbed himself. "Now."

Ginny spat the potion into the cup. The potion had turned a vivid red, a few shades brighter than blood. "So?"

Hermione looked grim. "You've been Oblivated. And regularly."

"I see," Ginny said flatly. She didn't feel anything yet. She watched Aaron take the cup. "And do you have any idea who's doing it?"

Hermione was biting her lower lip. "I think—we think Fred might be doing it."

Ginny felt her stomach sink. "Fred?" she said, hating the fact that her voice was as unsteady as a Hogwarts first year's. It wasn't true, she wanted to say. The words felt as dead and hollow as a block of wood.

"We're hoping the magical signature can help," Hermione said. "Aaron's been working on a way to do an analysis."

Ginny glanced at him. So maybe he did know about this beforehand, she thought vaguely. There was no ire. She felt numb. Exposed, as if a small part of her resented the fact that Hermione had chosen to do it here, in front of Snape and Aaron. All Aurors-in-training had to take a seminar on the effects of forced memory loss. It was a serious mental trauma, a breach of trust, in ways worse than uninvited Legilimency, etc. etc. Snippets from the course came back to her in a rush. Fred. Her body tightened with anger. Why? Hadn't their family suffered enough? First Percy, then Ron, her father, George, Charlie—

She took a deep breath and looked down, surprised. Aaron had put a hand on her knee. She stared at it for a moment, and then watched herself put her hand on his. "So you'll be able to tell from the analysis if it was Fred?"

"Not exactly," said Aaron. "I should be able to get a magical signature based on the wand that was used. It's not exact, so maybe whoever is responsible was using a different wand, but you wouldn't normally do that, especially with Obliviate."

"I see," Ginny said. He'd said whoever, not her brother, she noted. "Dragon heartstring and willow. That's Fred's wand," she added at Aaron's puzzled look. "So how'd you guess I was being Obliviated?" Ginny said, to Hermione.

"At first it was from listening to you talk. Some things didn't match up."

"Like what?"

"Little things." Hermione paused. "Also, you say that Fred doesn't show up at the Burrow very often, but the wards say he's been there quite a lot."

"The ones from the war?"

"Yes, those."

"Ah." She'd only just seen him yesterday. The memory seemed suddenly sharper, although moments were distorted, as though she were viewing it through a layer of water. Words leapt out at her: _Do you remember, Ginny_? he'd asked. Merlin.

"And I don't suppose there's some way I can get my memories back?"

Hermione shook her head. "This isn't Confundus. I'm sorry, Ginny."

Sorry about Fred? Sorry for keeping all this from me? Ginny felt her anger like a very thin line. She was holding it in, checked, but it was temporary. The five years of friendship with Hermione suddenly seemed nonexistent. It was the war again, when all she had was herself and her Auror training and the radio. _Four found reported missing in Greenwich. The Ministry would like to remind everyone to be on alert and to report any suspicious activity_.

But it wasn't Hermione's fault, Ginny told herself. The knowledge didn't help. Merlin, when would she finally be able to move on?

"Is that all?" Ginny said.

Hermione nodded.

"All right then," Ginny said, making sure her voice was tightly controlled. "I'll see all of you later."

She got up and left Hermione's office. She was only a few steps down the hall when she heard footsteps.

"Aaron!"

"Ginny," he said, sounding a bit breathless, "I've to help Hermione do the analysis today, but I was wondering if you'd some time tomorrow? There's a Muggle show in Covent Garden that I've got tickets for."

Ginny felt a wan smile come to her lips. "I'd love to," she said.

Aaron beamed. "Awesome! I'll pick you up from your flat at eightish?"

Ginny agreed. Aaron remarked again that it was awesome, they smiled at each other, and then they parted.

It was a cautious sort of joy that she was feeling as she went down the corridor. It did nothing to dispel the numbness and shock of learning that she'd been Obliviated, but… Aaron would be the first person she'd dated who hadn't started off by taking her to a pub and reminiscing for about the war. Twenty-something-year-olds, she thought, talking like scarred old men. Maybe, despite everything else, despite everything that had happened, a person like Aaron was what she needed. Someone different, who wouldn't bring up a past that she couldn't run far away from, but couldn't bear to forget.

qp qp qp

The strained look on Granger's face deepened into weariness the moment the Weasley girl stepped outside.

"Just a second, Dr. Granger," Skonser said hurriedly, and then Snape was alone with Granger in her office. A silence fell. Snape knew the look on Granger's face all too well, though he'd never been in a position to understand it. It was the look of deep personal failure that he'd seen so often on Albus Dumbledore's face.

"Well," said Granger, and Snape could see her folding away the emotions that were so evident on her face, putting them aside for later—when she was home and had her Muggle husband to hold her and talk to, Snape thought, "anyway…"

Skonser came back in, shutting the door quietly.

"Will you be able to do the analysis, Aaron?"

Skonser nodded. "I'll have it by tomorrow." He paused. "Is that all?"

Granger nodded. "Actually, Robert and I were wondering if you were free tomorrow night? I'd like you to have dinner with us."

"Ah…" Skonser's face reddened. "I'd love to, but I have plans for tomorrow."

"Oh, that's fine," Granger said lightly. "Some other time, maybe."

Skonser nodded. "I'm going to _La Traviata_ with Ginny."

Snape snorted. "Good luck," he murmured. "The Weasleys—and Gryffindors in general—aren't known for their taste in fine culture."

Granger laughed. Skonser looked confused. "Have a good time, Aaron," Granger said.

Skonser said his goodbyes, and departed.

"Well, Severus," said Granger, indicating the chair across from her table, "how about some tea?"

Snape felt his lips give a slight twist. "What's next, Dr. Granger? Sherbert lemons?"

She stared at him for a good moment, before laughing again. It was a different laugh from the one she'd given just a moment ago. "One Dumbledore a century is enough. We needn't another."

"It is the next century, I'm sure you're aware."

Granger made a face. "I'm bloody pregnant. And I'm not half as powerful a witch as Dumbledore was a wizard." She pinched her brows with her fingers. "Anyway, Robert's been asking if there's a Wizarding reason for why this baby is taking so long?"

"Magical babies can be fickle." Snape's lips gave a twitch. "Merlin was said to have stayed in his mother's womb for seven years."

Granger groaned. "The poor woman." She sighed. "How's Harry?"

"As good as can be supposed."

"Really, Severus, how _is_ he?"

Snape paused. "I've yet to see him today."

He waited. He could picture the different elements of Granger's psyche struggling: the Gryffindor reflex of concern, the alarm borne from war-honed instincts, the instinctive calculation courtesy of Dumbledore's mantle.

Granger's eyes flickered from her desk to the wall on the opposite side of the room. "I know he's perfectly capable of taking care of himself, but after what he's been through…" She paused. "I'm _worried_ about him, that's all."

Snape nodded, waited.

"I mean—" Granger droppd her hands in her lap. "We didn't even get a good run of tests on him, except for what St. Mungo's did." She stopped and said abruptly, "The last time I had a real conversation with him was more than five years ago."

"Yes," said Snape, about to go on something sarcastic about the difficulties of conversing while frozen stiff, but Granger continued: "Before that, even. Before Ron died." She took a deep breath. "He changed. Before the war, and after."

She looked up, and Snape was surprised at the small, sad smile on her face. "Harry's… different, now. We all changed, of course. But he—" She bit her lips.

Snape knew the words she couldn't say: but he'd changed the most. The Harry Potter she'd loved like a brother, who'd been one of her best friend for seven years at Hogwarts—that Harry Potter was dead. And only Snape knew the person who'd taken his place.

"You forget, Granger, that it's been twenty years."

She nodded, ruefully. "Of course. I was thinking, the other day, what might've happened if I'd pushed for the trolleriometer to be done sooner. Then we'd have gotten him out of the ice right after the war ended, and… well, it doesn't _really_ matter."

"No. It doesn't." But for reasons Granger wouldn't understand, Snape thought.

He was distantly aware, as though he were hovering above his mind and observing it critically, how deep his unease ran, and how he alone possessed it. Unease—of this man, this stranger. Listening to Granger speak, it'd become apparent that she didn't have fear of Potter, only concern for him. She probably had considered the possibility of Potter going Dark; Granger was certainly intelligent enough to consider everything. Considered it, and put it away. Snape had overestimated the effects of Dumbledore's training on the girl. She never understood—would never understand—Voldemort's power. Abstractly, yes, but she'd never encountered it face to face, never been _touched_.

And yet, the knowledge didn't help at all in understanding the man. Fear, terror, the shutting off of his mind until he was as unfeeling as a Muggle doll—that was Voldemort. Ambivalent and uneasy comradeship, the protective instincts of a teacher—that was Potter. Shadows and heat, endless yearning, a confused flurry of worlds forming and unforming, absence and hurt—that was Jonathan.

But this man right now was all of them, and none of them. And did he love him? Did it even matter? Snape stared hard at the table, wishing… He didn't know what he wished for.

There was a knock at the door. Granger glanced at a small sphere on her table. "Come in," she called.

Someone that Snape did not recognize entered. Granger did, though, as she smiled and said, "Cormac, how good to see you."

"Hallo, Dr. Granger," he said. He glanced at Snape and said, hesitantly, "Professor Snape. I don't know if you remember, but I had you for Potions at Hogwarts. Cormac McLaggen."

Snape nodded. He remembered, now, that this man had been one of his students once. A rather hopeless Gryffindor.

McLaggen turned to Granger. "Could I speak to you for a moment—alone?"

"Professor Snape is very discrete, especially if the matter is of importance," Granger said, keeping her tone light. She waved her wand, and the door shut. "Is this matter about Fred Weasley?"

McLaggen started. "How'd you know?"

"I talk to Ginny."

McLaggen muttered something under his breath. He cast one last, rather dark look at Snape before saying, in a quiet voice, "I was wondering if the Department of Mysteries has a way of telling if someone's memory has been altered."

Snape and Granger exchanged a glance. "Why?" Granger said.

McLaggen's face colored. "Look, it's just a feeling, okay? A hunch. But I think someone may have been tinkering with Ginny's memory."

"An interesting theory," Granger said. Snape suppressed a smirk. Here, at long last, was Dumbledore's training, coming full force.

"Just—if you've a way of finding out, I think you ought to try it. And I didn't give you the hunch, either," McLaggen added. He looked very uneasy.

A pause. And then, from Granger: "Is there something you'd like to tell us?"

Snape stifled a snort. Us, was it? He looked from Granger's open, compassionate face, to McLaggen's pale one. Hadn't McLaggen actually been a few years above Granger? He looked all too much like an overgrown boy. The war worked in strange ways, thought Snape: boys became old men, but men became children.

McLaggen was struggling. "Nothing," he said at last. "Only—" He faltered and fell silent.

When nothing more came, Granger sighed. "There is a way of telling if someone's memory has been altered," she said. "In fact, Professor Snape was here for the purpose of administering the test."

McLaggen's head snapped up. "On whom? If I may ask."

"Ginny Weasley. Severus, may I have a vial?"

Snape nodded. Granger was obviously onto something.

"The subject takes a mouthful of the potion—which, by the way, tastes a bit like mint—holds it for half a minute, and spits it into a gold-plated cup," Granger explained.

There was another pause.

"The analysis can determine not only can the frequency and severity of the memory alteration, but also the properties of the wand responsible."

McLaggen was still hesitant. Snape knew what Granger was playing at; it had to be McLaggen's own idea.

"Have you got Ginny's results back yet?"

"Not yet; they're being analysed by our magicists." She added, softly, "It doesn't hurt to be sure."

McLaggen stirred. "Yes. Yes, I—" The words came out stumblingly. "I know it's an odd request, but perhaps it's possible that I'm tested, too? The way Ginny was?"

Granger smiled brilliantly. "Not an odd request at all. Severus?"

He administered the potion. Instead of trying to make light of it, the way the Weasley girl had, McLaggen was quiet, pale, set.

"When will the analysis be completed?" he asked, after he'd spat the potion into the chalice. Snape masked his surprise: McLaggen's potion was a faint pink. Red, he knew, meant memory alterations; green meant the opposite. Pink though…

There was a knock at the door. "Come in," Granger called.

A compact, middle-aged man wearing a knitted vest came in. Snape recognized him as Demme, head of the Auror division.

"McLaggen," Demme said, after a moment of surprise, "what're you doing here?"

"Er…"

"Department business," Granger said evenly.

Demme shrugged, clearly not buying it, but as though he didn't care one way or another. "You're needed. Shoo."

McLaggen scurried out with one last look at the chalice and its unmoving contents. Demme shut the door behind him and glanced between Granger and Snape. "You Order people," he muttered.

"What is it?"

"Hogwarts has been attacked," Demme said.

For a moment, there was silence in the room. Snape had a sharp feeling of déjà vu; Voldemort is dead, he thought. But then an insidious voice whispered: is he? is he _completely_ dead? He shuddered and tried not to remember green eyes that seemed, strangely, to contain a glint of red.

"No casualties, fortunately," Demme went on, "but there's one injury."

"Who?"

"Fred Weasley."

Years ago, Snape had heard, quite by accident, a prophecy predicting the birth of a child who would have power to defeat the Dark Lord. It was only later, much later, that he wondered how it was that his mind had jumped to Lily and James Potter.

And here, now, the same thing happened. Only, whereas he'd felt dread and—he was ashamed to admit it—envy and even triumph twenty years ago, he felt now only fear—deep, inexplicable fear.

"How badly is he hurt?" Granger asked.

Demme shook his head. "He's not injured, per se, but he's not waking up. He's in St. Mungo's right now. We figured maybe one of your magicists might be able to help."

Granger nodded. She tapped a bell on her table. "Aaron? Aaron, come to my office right away. You can finish the analysis tomorrow."

The silence settled again.

"I should probably have asked before McLaggen left," Demme said, "but has any of you seen Ginny Weasley?"

qp qp qp

_Hogwarts attacked_…

How many times had those words echoed in her head? How many times had she heard them in her nightmares? It'd been McGonagall who'd said them—the last words Ginny had heard the Transfiguration Professor say…

_You brother is at St. Mungo's_.

She shut her eyes. _In the mortuary_. She knew exactly how to get there: go down two floors, enter a door with translucent windows through which you could see the faint pale shapes of beds…

Ginny clutched the wall, suddenly unable to move.

"Hey, Gin," said Tonks. "You all right?"

With tremendous effort, Ginny nodded. "Yes," she croaked. "I'm all right."

At least he was alive. At least he was breathing. The completion of the thought came bearing down on her like a boulder, together with those horrible images she had no defense against: unlike Ron. Unlike Charlie. Unlike Percy. Unlike George. Unlike Dad...

"Ginny?"

She turned sharply. "Aaron!" she said. She could hear the edge of hysteria in her voice, but it was as though from a distance, as if she were standing on the other side of a glass wall. "What're you doing here?"

Aaron had an inscrutable look on his face. "Jack Demme came asking the Department of Mysteries for help," he said. He looked around. "Don't know how much I can do, but… You all right?"

Ginny nodded, though the out-of-body feeling hadn't gone away. Maybe it was only the firewhisky, she thought. "I'm fine."

She'd found out—of all places—in the Green Dragon, which was the favored pub of the Aurors. She'd been nursing her second lager, wondering if she wanted to flirt with the tattooed (like Bill), dark-haired (like Harry) wizard sitting quietly at the table, when the bartender, Bernie, had leaned over and asked her if she'd heart about the attack on Hogwarts.

"Heard there was only one injury," he'd said, eyes concerned. "Seems like it was your brother."

My brother. Ginny shut her eyes at the memory. After that, she remembered standing before the fireplace with a handful of Floo powder. She could've shouted any name—St. Mungo's, the Burrow, Auror headquarters—but she'd gone, instead, to Hogwarts, even though she knew that the Aurors must have cleared everything away by now. Why hadn't she gone to St. Mungo's, or to her Mum's? (Did her Mum even know?) Maybe it was to avoid the image of her brother's still body, the bloodless face. Maybe it was so she wouldn't have to see the way her mother clutched the countertop until her knuckles were whiter than parchment…

"Ginny!"

She started. Aaron and Tonks were looking at her worriedly. "You better take her away," Tonks said in a low voice. "Not much you can do here, I think…"

"No," Ginny said, aware that her voice was almost hoarse. "I'm—it's just—"

"Ginny…"

She shook her head. She _wouldn't_ go, she _wouldn't_. She couldn't. Not to face the long spiral of stairs that descended from the headmaster's office. She remembered taking them after Dumbledore had told her and her family about how Ron had been taken. She could remember…

She shook herself. She was aware that someone had a hand on her shoulder. She took it and—she couldn't help herself—started squeezing. Feeling it, she knew that it was Aaron's. She didn't want to turn around and see him wincing from the desperate strength of her hands, as she knew he must be.

"What's that?" Aaron said.

Her eyes focused. "What?"

He pointed again. This time, Ginny saw what looked like a small smear of white dust on the floor. "Oh, just…" She paused and frowned.

"What?" said Tonks.

Aaron pointed again.

Tonks moved forward and held her wand above it. When she turned around, her face was grim. "It's crackle," she said.

qp qp qp

He went into the liquor store on impulse. He'd been meaning to floo straight to his flat from Granger's office, but after the little scene regarding Fred Weasley, he'd found himself in the atrium of the Ministry. The doorway had been five steps to the left. The fireplaces, far down the other end of the hall.

Inexplicably, he'd gone outside.

It was a beautiful day. The sun was out, and a slight breeze snuck between the gutters and nudged at his robe. Snape felt as though he were walking in a daze, separated from everyone else in a streets by an unbridgeable width of worlds.

'Linnaeus's Fine Liquors,' the sign read. Snape went inside.

The clerk let him wander a moment or two before greeting him. "How may I help you, sir?"

Snape paused, looking at the bottles lining the wall. He let his gaze go over each one, dispassionately reading the labels: Dragon's Breath, Milchtod, Firewhisky— He stopped. Absinthe. Hadn't Frost drunk absinthe with Lily Evans?

"Yes," Snape said, hearing his voice coming out as smoothly as ever. "I'd like a Milchtod."

"Will that be all, sir?"

"And an absinthe."

He paid, turned, and paused in the doorway. "Would it be possible that I use the fireplace of your establishment?"

The clerk gave a grin that showed one front tooth missing. "Sure, sure, good ahead."

Snape went to the fireplace and hesitated. He thought: I've become afraid of going back to my own flat. He tossed a pinch of green powder into the fire and said, in a clear, angry voice, "Twenty-four, Spinner's End!"

The living room blinds were still down, so it was a moment before his eyes could adjust. He looked around carefully. "Potter?" he called. There was no response. Muttering an oath under his breath, Snape snapped his wand; the windows jerked open and shivered, as though unaccustomed to such violent commands.

"Thoughtless, irritating fool," Snape snapped, to no one at all. He went down the hall, pushed open the door to his bedroom, and stopped short.

Lying on the bed, naked and asleep, was Niles.

Snape frowned, took out his wand, tugged at the wards that coated his flat. None of them had been disturbed. He looked at the boy fully for the first time. There were scratches and bruises—some rather nasty looking—all over the body. Zabini's doing, most like, Snape thought grimly.

"Boy?" he said. Then, though the word felt awkward in his mouth, "Niles?"

No response, except a deepening of the frown on the boy's brow. Sighing, Snape tapped the supine body with his wand. "_Ennervate_—"

The boy's eyes snapped open. Then he flung himself out of his bed and sank his teeth into Snape's arm.

Snape bit back a scream. He jabbed his wand at the boy's throat, and found his mind suddenly and completely blank. Quite frankly, he didn't know a spell to stop someone from biting on his arm without killing or seriously maimimg the attacker. The pain becoming unbearable, and the boy's entire head seemed to be trembling with exertion. Finally: "_Musculus dystrophus!"_

Niles went slack and dropped to the ground. Snape stepped back and stared at his arm. There was a very clear and very ugly ring of teeth marks. Several places—around the incisors and canines—were pitted with blood. "Idiot boy," Snape muttered. He cast several layers of healing charms, wincing when the redness only dulled slightly, before the boy began to stir. The spell was wearing off.

"_Vinculum extremis_!" Snape snapped, feeling more than a little satisfaction the boy jerked from the ropes that snapped around his body like hungry eels. "Now…" He met the boy's eyes. They were more than a little wild. Snape frowned, turned and swept the wards again. Nothing. He ran his wand over the boy, who only stared at him blankly. Nothing.

"You will explain yourself, boy," Snape said ominously. "Niles," he added, though he wasn't sure why he did so.

For a moment, Snape wondered if the boy had suffered from a particularly bad Obliviate. His eyes were still fixed at nothing, and his body, Snape noted for the first time, was almost trembling.

"Niles…?"

The eyes snapped to his face, and the boy shuddered. "It wasn't a dream, was it?" he muttered, the unseeing look still there. "I didn't jus' dream it, did I?"

"Dream what?"

The boy squeezed his eyes shut. "They're killing 'im. He's—dead."

Snape clenched his jaw. "What are you blabbering about, boy?" he snapped.

The boy's eyes finally cleared. "You!" he blurted. Snape watched bemusedly as Niles looked around, as though he'd just noticed that he was now in Snape's bedroom. Well, thought Snape peevishly, maybe the idiot boy did just notice. "What am I doing 'ere?"

"I was hoping you could answer that," Snape said coolly.

"And why'm I in these fucking ropes again?" the boy demanded, sounding outraged.

Snape smiled grimly and drew up his sleeve. "Because this, Mr. Niles, is your idea of greeting your host."

Niles stared at the bite mark. "Wha'?"

"You bit me," Snape said shortly.

"_I_ did that?" The boy frowned. "I thought…" He looked up uneasily. "Er, I guess I did do that. Sorry. I thought I was…" He stopped.

"Yes?"

"I was—I wasn't here a moment ago," Niles said. There was a helpless note in his voice. "I was back in Nightmare Manor—"

"Where?"

"Oh, it's this big place in Devon—that's what _he_ calls it, at least."

"Who's _he_?"

Niles bit his lower lip. "My Master."

It was a good thing he'd been a spy for so long, Snape thought; he knew his face was as smooth as a rock when he asked, "Who is this 'Master' of yours?"

The boy looked up through his eyelashes. It was not a very different from so many idiot schoolchildren he'd taught in the past, Snape thought. He could read the emotions like words—resentment, fear. But there was something else, too. Something old and exhausted. "You know him. He calls himself the White Knight."

"Blaise Zabini?"

Niles nodded. "I'm Bound to him."

"I see," said Snape, though he didn't, not really. He remembered Zabini saying something about Terrance Lestrange, who Snape knew had been bound to Voldemort in a strange, unfathomable way. It was impossible to shake free the associations: Lestrange, whom Frost had killed.

The memory was still on his mind when Niles continued, "I was seeing… and I guess I must've been sleeping while I was, but I was seeing… seeing him killed."

"Who?" Lestrange? Snape thought in a moment of wild uncertainty.

"My Master," Niles said. He fell silent, face white.

Snape straightened. "I'm sorry," he said. The boy looked empty, dead. A memory from years and years ago came to him: he remembered a story he'd read of a kneazle who had been Bound to a boy. When the boy had died from a flood, the book had described kneazle wandering in aimless circles, keening and looking as though a fiery wind had passed through it. The words had never quite left him, nor the image they'd conjured: _a fiery wind_.

He felt one of the wards stroke his mind. The fireplace was in use.

"Severus?" he heard Granger's voice calling.

Snape cast a quick glance at the boy. He seemed dazed, quite incapable of destroying anymore furniture, as he had the first time around. "_Finite incantatem_," he said. The ropes disappeared. Snape caught the small, surprised smile Niles gave before he left the room.

"What is it?"

"Is Harry here?" Granger asked.

"No."

She nodded. Her face was grim. "I've got news."

Snape felt parts of him clench in apprehension. "Weasley?"

Granger hesitated. "Blaise Zabini is dead."

"Zabini?" Snape said slowly, as though the thought had never occurred to him.

"Yes. His body was found at the edge of Hogwarts wards. He'd been killed—with Fred Weasley's wand."

qp qp qp

"But you don't think he did it?"

"I don't know."

"Do you?"

"Ginny, I don't know what to think."

She's being honest, Ginny thought. She really doesn't know what to think. Hermione doesn't know what to think. Oh Merlin. "Well, what're the chances of him going to Azkaban?"

"Ginny…"

She'd taken a Calming Draught from Aaron. The world still didn't seem to hold together correctly, but Ginny could view each piece dispassionately. Or at least, that's how it seemed. "If Fred's gone to Azbakan, the Weasley name is going with him."

"It's very unlikely that he'll go. Even if he _did_ do it—"

"But he didn't." She got up and found herself facing the wall. "It doesn't make any sense. He wouldn't."

"Ginny? Ginny, come here, I—"

There was something wrong with Hermione's voice. When Ginny turned, she saw that Hermione had a hand over her belly. She hurried over, but Hermione waved her other hand.

"Nothing," she said. "Not time yet."

qp qp qp

"Perhaps you would like a Dreamless Sleep Potion?"

The boy considered him for a moment. "Does it work on people who can't do any magic?"

Snape glowered. "Don't be an idiot, boy. You are a wizard."

"I'm not."

"Don't argue with me, boy."

"I'm not arguing. I'm just saying. I know I'm not magic."

Snape coffed. "Then how—"

"It's the Bond," Niles said suddenly. He shivered. "It's the Bond that lets me do some stuff." He looked up, suddenly angry. "If I was a wizard, I'd know!" He grew quiet. "I wouldn't have let them all walk over me. I'm not… like that." Then he shivered again. "But now he's…"

A silence. "Did you see who killed him?"

Niles shook his head.

qp qp qp

"Someone could be trying to frame him. Someone could've gone up to his office, knocked him out, left some crackle on the floor, then gone down with his wand and killed Zabini. It's possible, isn't it? Isn't it?"

"I don't know." It took Hermione too long to respond. Ginny felt her stomach plummet. She shivered.

"But who would want to do that to Fred? Who?"

"It's not who'd _want_ to do it. It's who _could_."

There was a knock on the door. "Jack," said Hermione, "do come in."

"Weasley, Dr. Granger," he said. "The autopsy results for Zabini have come back."

"And?"

"They match the _Priori Incantatem_ results of Fred Weasley's wand. Zabini died of the Intestine-Splitting Hex."

Ginny felt a shudder clutch her body. She wished she were clutching something warmer than her own, cold hands. I wish Aaron were here, she thought, each word clear and precise in her mind. She paused. It's only the Calming Draught. Once it wears off, I'm going to be a wreck. You're really not as prepared as you thought you'd be. You're really not prepared.

"Thank you, Jack."

"But Fred wouldn't do that," Ginny found herself muttering. "He wouldn't even know that spell. He wouldn't even know it."

Hermione was frowning.

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"Did he hurt you?"

Niles frowned. "Why'd you ask that every time?"

"It seems like a reasonable assumption. You are aware, I take it, of the photographs Zabini sent me? You did not look exactly comfortable in them."

"Yeah, I remember." There was a momentary dark look on the boy's face. Snape found himself reminded of the Potter boy, years and years ago, at every mention of his dead godfather, or dementors, or Voldemort. "That wasn't so good. But mostly they didn't hurt me. They weren't nice or anything, but least they didn't hurt me. _He_ wouldn't have let them."

Sounds like a good master, Snape thought, but bit back the comment. "Where were you taken next?"

"Oh, I dunno. We weren't just runnin' from the Ministry, you know. There's other crackle lords who'd love to take a crack at us when we're down."

"I imagine."

"My Master, he—"

"Don't call him that."

"What? Master?"

"Yes, that. Call him the White Knight or Zabini. Not the other."

Snape watched several expressions war on Niles's face—resentfulness, sorrow, the ever-present weariness. Then they collapsed. "That's what he was, though," Niles muttered, looking down. The gruel, which Snape had asked for from Tibby, was untouched. "And I was… I was his slave."

Snape was pleased by the touch of sullenness in the boy's voice. "Not anymore."

Niles closed his eyes and wouldn't say anything else for a long time.

qp qp qp

Ginny shrugged in the silence. "I know what you're thinking," she said lightly, though she felt exhausted. The Calming Draught was ebbing. "You're thinking, 'Here's Ginny, saying this and that about her brother Fred, but really she's Obliviated. Nothing she says is at all reliable.'"

"Ginny, I don't think—"

"No, you don't. You wouldn't."

"You need rest, Ginny."

"Yes." She thought of going back, not to her flat but to the Burrow. Her mum would probably still be at St. Mungo's. Oh Merlin, she probably hadn't heard about Zabini yet, had she?

"Would you like me to talk to your mother?"

Ginny whirled around, mouth open. Then she shut it. "No. Merlin, Hermione, you need rest, too!"

"I've a firecall to make."

Ginny nodded. She turned and stopped, hesitant. "You don't— Sorry."

"I don't believe Fred did it," Hermione said. She'd faltered halfway through, but her voice had an undercurrent of determination.

Ginny felt calmer immediately. Since when did I just let Hermione do everything? she thought. Since my family started to die, one by one. The memory surged, of how everything that had once been crisp abruptly became a whirl in the space of a week. But Hermione lost her parents in an attack, Ginny thought. Why can't I do it? What's wrong with me?

"Ginny?"

Ginny shook her head, hoping to Merlin that this was one thought Hermione wouldn't be able to guess. "I'll see you later," she said, and left.

Hermione sat silently for a moment. Her face was tight, strained. Then she tossed a pinch of Floo powder into a basin on her table. A green flame arose. "24 Spinner's End," she said.

qp qp qp

"Is there any particular reason you are staring at me like that?"

"No. No, not really."

"Hmm."

Niles took the potion with eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"It's not poisoned," Snape said, very dryly.

The boy flushed and then took one sip, then another. Not at all like that time the idiot boy had downed a entire vial in one gulp, Snape thought. The memory seemed from a lifetime ago.

Snape took the empty cup and hesitated. "I am… kind to you for my own peace of mind," he said finally.

Niles was still looking at him, though Snape could see the sleepiness film over the boy's eyes. "Your peace of mind?" Niles muttered, frowning.

"Shh," Snape said. "Go to sleep."

He watched the eyes flutter shut, and felt a strange ache that he couldn't remember having felt before. Or, Snape thought slowly, as he stood and regarded the sleeping body with dispassionate eyes, felt so long ago that it's only the shadow of a shadow.

The wards shivered. "Severus?"

Granger. Snape closed his eyes. He opened his eyes a moment later and stepped out of the room.

qp qp qp

"Hello, Severus."

"Hello, Granger," Snape said, sitting down. There was a pause.

"Well," said Granger, smiling slightly, "it's been a long day."

"Yes," Snape said dryly. And I'm sure you needed to fire-call to tell me that, he thought.

"Have you seen Harry about today?"

"No."

Granger bit her lip. "I see," she said. It might have been a trick of the light, but Snape had been looking for it; Granger's eyes became suddenly more guarded. Yes, he thought. I know what you are thinking. "Well, let me know if you do, will you?"

"Was anything else of interest found in Weasley's office?"

Granger hesitated. "No," she said.

Snape sat back. "Granger," he said in a cool, calm voice, the kind he hadn't used in years, "I hope you realize what you are doing."

He gave her a moment to digest what he'd said. Knowing Granger, a moment was more than enough. "Did they really not find anything?" he said quietly.

Granger's face was a fascinating study of reluctance, unhappiness, and fear. "Fred's wand had the Intestine-Splitting Hex on it," she said. "That's what killed Zabini. And Ginny mentioned that they found a trace of crackle on the floor."

Snape nodded. "Not surprising," he said. "Zabini, after all, is the head of a crackle ring."

"Do you believe that Fred Weasley killed Zabini?"

"That is where the evidence points, do they not?" Snape said coolly.

Granger nodded. Her head was bowed.

"Well, I'll talk to you later, I'm sure," Granger said with a sigh. "Do tell me when Harry comes around?"

"He may not come here," Snape pointed out. "Get some rest, Granger."

Granger nodded and withdrew her head from the flames. What am I doing? Snape thought, even before the green flames had faded. What am I doing?

He stopped and went unsteadily to the kitchen. Defending him again. Why? Snape closed his eyes, the voice whispering in his mind: Only this morning, you'd hoped that Granger would realize just how dangerous Potter—Frost—was. And now, now that a hint of that understanding is entering her mind, now that she is on the edge of realizing, what do you do? You defend him. Just like you defended him even after you saw him kill Lestrange. Even after you watched him cut the clothes off the corpse, like pulling scales off a fish.

Snape shook his head, trying to push aside the memory. His throat was clenched so tightly that any sound he made would've been a scream. Tea, he thought. He got to the doorway before stopping short.

Potter was sitting in one of the chairs. "Hello, Severus."

The instincts from years before Voldemort took over. He swallowed. "Potter," he said calmly.

The blinds here were still drawn. Potter was no more than a vague, sullen shape in the darkness. "That was Hermione," he said.

Snape nodded, realized there was no point, and then decided that Potter was probably aware of it anyway. He raised his wand; the blinds heaved up, and the sharp afternoon sunlight flooded the room. Potter looked exceptionally pale.

"It was," Snape said. "Busy day, today?"

He watched one side of the lip pull up in the shadow of a smile. "Yes," Potter said.

He wasn't any more forthcoming. Tea, Snape reminded himself, and went to the cabinet. "I suppose you're responsible for the new arrival in my sitting room today?"

"Niles? Yes."

"Tea?"

"No. Thanks."

Snape sat down, blowing softly at the cup. He noticed Potter's glance darting from the opposite wall to his mouth. "Doubtless you've heard about Weasley and Zabini?" Snape said, keeping his voice as dark and smooth as possible.

Potter nodded once, his face inscrutable. No, thought Snape. It was actually transparent. The sullenness was that—sullenness. The resentment and the edge of some internal unease, like the last flickers of an ember, were what they were. It was only the silence that made things difficult. It was a thick, impenetrable glass, walled between abstraction and meaning.

He took a sip of the tea.

"Sorry," Potter said suddenly.

Snape frowned. "You do realize…"

"Yes," Potter said. He slipped out of his chair, one swift, uncoiling movement. For a moment, his eyes were wild. "I know. I'm apologizing again. I'm not supposed to. But at least this way, you won't have to forgive me." Then, without meeting Snape's gaze, he disappeared down the hall.

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_A/N: Please review! You'll be making an author immeasurably happy. :)_


	11. Interlude

_A/N: This chapter was uploaded after the subsequent one, but should be read first._

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**Chapter 11: Interlude**

The flat was quiet, which was as it should have been. After a bit of thought, Snape took out the Milchtod and poured himself some on ice. The cubes cracked pleasantly and, with the glass, seemed to prism the firelight.

He was tired. He'd gotten the newest issue of _Le Potions Weekly_, but hadn't had a chance to read the previous one. There were a few articles that he'd marked out, a job offer that he supposed he should be interested in. It occurred to him that his so-called… relationship with the Boy-Who-Lived might be a liability in the job market. Or an asset. The thought filled him with distaste, but it was not unamusing, if only in a faint, detached way.

He'd just settled into the chair with _Le Potions_ in one hand and the Milchtod in the other when he heard it. He frowned, at first paranoid, and then a bit puzzled. He knew what the noise was.

After a moment, he raised his hand. "Tibby," he said softly.

The house-elf appeared and bowed. "Yes, Master Snape?"

"Check on the boy. Don't let him know you're there."

Tibby disappeared with another bow. She returned again after a few moments. "He's crying, Master Snape."

"I know."

"And he is sleeping under the coverlet, Master Snape, not the sheets," Tibby added. If it was possible for a house-elf to be disapproving, Snape thought, then Tibby was certainly feeling jilted.

"I see," Snape said, and inclined his head. Tibby stepped back and disappeared. Snape clinked the cubes in his glass a few times and turned his attention, as it was quite overdue, to moonstones and eel grass.

qp qp qp

"I didn't know this was such a big deal," Ginny whispered.

When Aaron had said "show," she'd assumed something along the lines of a Celestina Warbeck concert, or maybe a smaller venue, like the Delphic Harpers. She supposed that the name being Italian should've given away a few things, but – opera?

"Our seats are on the top floor," Aaron said. "They're – well, they could be better, but I've been in that section before. It's all right."

The seats filled, and Ginny squinted at the pamphlet they'd been handing out. Apparently the show was set in France, sung in Italian, and about a woman who was dying of tuberculosis. She wished the lights were better, or that she could draw her wand here; her father, she thought, would've been proud of her for "respecting the Muggles."

"I guess you've never been to an opera before."

Ginny shook her head. "Mum had a few discs with opera-sounding music, but she was mainly into Clannad, Capercaille. You know." Aaron nodded vaguely, and Ginny went on. "I don't think Ron was ever into music, but the twins liked the newest Muggle bands – Red Hot Chili Peppers, Goo Goo Dolls, that sort of thing."

She paused. "Actually" – she chuckled – "Ron had this thing for Latin music."

"Oh, really?"

Ginny stopped, flipped her booklet close and then open. She'd forgotten, somehow, that Aaron obviously had never even met Ron. She grimaced. That was a really stupid mistake. Why had she made such a stupid mistake? Oh well.

The lights dimmed. Ginny glanced at Aaron; he glanced back. This was nice, she thought, noticing that he'd inched his hand over so that it was touching her knee. The first strains of the violins began, and Ginny settled back, putting her hand down next to his.

qp qp qp

Snape would've noticed the twist of the bartender's lips at any rate, but it registered like an arrow because he was expecting it.

"That'll be two sickles," the bartender said.

Snape dropped the two coins on the table.

"Enjoy your drink, sir."

At least those lips twisting at the moment of recognition was all that the bartender did. Snape took his drink and made his way to the wall. Out of habit, he rubbed his forefinger across the rim of the drink – once clockwise, once counterclockwise. There was no poison, not that he'd been expecting it.

He was here to do business and because he could not sleep. Tibby would take care of the boy if he needed anything, not that he expected the situation to occur. Neither did he expect that he would be missed if the boy realized his absence. He had gone very quietly.

Snape had recognized the name of the man who had placed the notification in _Le Potions_. (He disliked calling it advertisement; it was too common for his art.) It was framed as a sort of challenge – something to deal with finding a way to counter the effects of moonstone in a gold base. Although it wasn't stated, Snape understood immediately the applications: gold bases were useful in treating mind magic, and moonstones had the property as acting as an analgesic. He would certainly not be the first person to try to introduce moonstones successfully into a gold base, but the notification had mentioned a possibly novel approach using an infusion of oakroot and thyme. The notification had also carried an owl address, which Snape had ignored; he knew where to seek out Luciano Gui.

It was well past midnight when Gui showed up. Snape saw him first, but did not feel bothered to make the first move. Gui was wearing his usual dandyish getup, and accompanied, as he usually was, by the sort of muscled Italian male that he liked to appear with. Snape allowed his British distaste to fade to mere disdain. He watched Gui get a drink, share a joke with the bartender, scan the room… and stop in recognition. Yes, Snape thought, feel irritated. He did not like the grin on Gui's face, nor the way he exchanged a few words with the other Italian.

Gui made his way through the crowd. Snape pushed his back off the wall and crossed his arms.

"Ah, Severus, my friend!" Gui said. "What a pleasure – what a surprise to see you!"

"The pleasure is mine," Snape intoned.

Gui turned. "This is Fabio, Severus – and Fabio, this is the most intelligent man you have met in your life. The most intelligent, the most disciplined, the most rivetingly intellectual, the most – ah!"

"You flatter me," Snape said. He turned. "Fa-bio." What a distasteful name, Snape thought.

The man in question grinned stupidly. "_Ciao_, Severus," he said. His voice was much too effeminate for his body, Severus noted, but that was often the case with the sort of cattle Gui brought with him. It'd been a different boy last time – a Greek, but practically a clone.

Snape turned back to Gui. "I'm here on business."

"Oh, come, Severus. You know where we are! This is a place of celebration, of life, of love and sex – but, well, mainly love, that is the important thing. Isn't it, Severus?"

Snape wanted very hard to massage the bridge of his nose. "Once again, Gui, I've underestimated your talent for spouting idiocy."

Gui chuckled. "All right, I know this place doesn't suit you. You're too British, too tough in the middle, too unbending in the back. But I am surprised, surprised that you're here by yourself."

Fabio giggled, a brainless sort of titter that made Snape wish there were something systematically sadistic, like taking off House points and assigning detention, that he could do.

"Yes," Gui went on, eyes glinting, "in this house of love, shouldn't you be with the man you love – eh, Severus?"

"As you are with your love?"

A bit of the laugh slid off Fabio's face, but Gui wrapped an arm around his companion. One flap of his coat brushed against the expanding potbelly; Snape remembered that Gui had been born before Grindelwald had been defeated. "Life is full of love, Severus. But we will get down to business – eh? As the British say it. And the Americans. Get _down_ to business."

They discussed the properties of oakroot and the difficulties Gui was having in the timing of the thyme, the possibility of using a platinum base instead. After five minutes, Fabio's eyes had gotten glassy, and he was fidgeting. Snape was just about to incinerate him with a comment when Gui put a hand up to Fabio's head.

"Get me another drink, will you, love? And go to the dance floor. I will come for you when I am done."

Fabio left. Snape dropped his eyes after Gui did; he considered telling his fellow Potions master that this "love" he'd brought was certainly going to end up in someone else's arms within the next ten minutes, but decided to hold silent. Gui already knew.

"It's this thyme, this thyme," Gui muttered. "How to get it infused in time? It is stubborn, this plant. Perhaps we could try charming the cauldron, eh?"

"Perhaps."

"You remember what it was for, don't you, Severus? It was your idea. Only you would have thought of something like that. I – charm the cauldron!"Gui made a scoffing noise. "Ah, a pity it was for the War. It would have been a good publication."

"You published it later."

"But your name was not included. Well, never mind, my friend. So – a charm…"

Within an hour, they had outlined a plan that Snape was already itching to pursue. Modulating the fire while keeping the cauldron ergodic – he cursed himself for not having thought of it immediately. It should work – but a potion that only worked in theory was useless. It would be a good project for the next few months.

"You will send me notes when you have them?" Gui said.

Snape nodded. "I will give you weekly updates – more frequently, if there is anything exciting. I don't anticipate there will be, though, not at least for a month."

Gui chuckled. "I know that look in your eyes, Severus. You are itching to work already, eh? You will go back and start your potion without sleep." He sighed and took out a heavy bag of coins. "I owe you too much, Severus."

"You have no obligation to pay me, Gui."

"Nonsense. You are working for my Istituto di Magico, aren't you? Take it."

Snape took it. Protesting would have made him even more disgusted with himself; this money was far, far better than what he earned from those other petty jobs.

"_Buon, buon_. Ah, I pay well, don't I, Severus?"

Snape nodded.

"I could have paid you – on a regular payroll, and not in a gay club, like this – if you had decided to come work for me. You would have had almost unlimited funding. Private labs for yourself – and your assistants, and their assistants. Your name in every top tier journal. Ah," Gui held up a finger, "don't say it. I know you needed to stay here – in cold, gray, rainy Britain, with gay people who don't know how to be gay."

"Indeed," Snape said. "And why is that?"

"You were waiting. And you were watching, and making sure. But he is back now, isn't he? You have him back. Why stay in Britain? You can go anywhere you want."

"Perhaps I happen to enjoy Britain."

"Maybe he wants to stay. Is it why? Or you cannot forget some things."

Snape kept silent. The urge to simply Disapparate was almost overpowering.

Gui sighed. "Now, I will go look for my _amor_, as you so kindly tell me. Good night, Severus."

Snape nodded. "Good night," he said and watched Gui weave through the crowd and disappear.

qp qp qp

By the end of the show, Ginny found herself quite involved in the story. She found herself wanting to cast a good Jelly-Legs Hex on the tenor when he'd denounced Violetta, and even felt a few tears when the soprano sang her third-act aria.

"Well," Ginny said, after the applause, after they had filed out of the theater, "that was something."

"You liked it?" Aaron said. He seemed peculiarly pleased.

"Yeah, I did."

They followed the general flow of the crowd. The nearest Floo stop was a few blocks away. The air wasn't too chilly, although Ginny felt goosebumps beginning to form on the backs of her arms.

"Opera was one of the few things I got from my dad," Aaron said, after they'd walked for a length without talking. "The love of it, I mean. And some CDs."

Ginny nodded. CDs – she remembered what those were. Her dad had been quite obsessed with them and even procured a machine that was supposed to play them. It had never worked, of course.

"This was one of the operas he left when he went away, so it was one of the first ones I really got into."

He fell silent. Ginny turned and hooked a hand around his wrist. "It was lovely, all of it," she said.

Aaron turned, and when he leaned towards her, it felt natural that she should lean towards him in turn and meet his lips in a kiss.

They stopped when they reached the Floo stop, which was a mixed Muggle-magic pub Ginny had been to a few times. Aaron tilted his head towards the bar, and Ginny, after a moment's hesitation, nodded.

"So how do the Aurors keep all the Muggles here from figuring us out?" Aaron asked after they'd gotten their drinks.

"There's a selective memory charm on the door," Ginny said.

"I thought you can't selectively target Muggles?"

"You can't – it only targets you if you're feeling distressed about what you've seen in the pub. And it's very easy to resist if you're used to doing magic."

Aaron nodded, satisfied. He lifted his glass and smiled goofily. "_Libiamo! Da-da-da-da!_"

Ginny laughed. There was a pleasant fullness in her chest, and the alcohol was making her feel relaxed. The beer was good, too. She eyed the fireplace for a few moments and then turned to Aaron. "Shall we go when we're done with these?"

Aaron nodded and proceeded to drain his glass.

They were standing in front of the fireplace, and Aaron already had a pinch of Floo powder between his fingers, when Ginny said, "Would you like to come over for a while? I've got some champagne in the fridge – not terribly good, but good enough, I think."

"Yes," Aaron said quickly.

"Right," Ginny said, smiling. "Diagon Alley!" she called, and stepped through the fire.

The streets were mostly empty, which wasn't surprising, given the hour. They walked close to each other, although without touching. It was a good thing that she had decided to clean her flat yesterday, Ginny thought. She did have one of those Clean Traps set up, which would throw all her laundry into the closet if she had a visitor (she'd read about it in _Witch's Weekly_), but the last time she'd checked the spell was a month ago.

"You live above Christina's Ice Cream?"

"I do. It used to be the twins' joke shop, the whole two floors, but they sold the downstairs and left the top for me. It's really too big, I should look for a roommate…" The door swung open, and she switched on the light. "Don't bother taking your shoes off – I'll get us something to drink."

Aaron was peering at her mantelpiece when she came back.

"Hi," she said, and aimed.

He turned. "Oh, hello – " The champagne bottle went off with a pop, and Aaron dropped into a crouch with a yelp.

"Sorry," Ginny said, laughing. "It was a trick that George taught me." She handed him the glass and poured. "Oops – too much. _Scourgify_. You all right?"

"Yeah, that just scared me a bit."

"Sorry," Ginny said. Aaron was smiling, though. "You try growing up with six brothers, two of whom were insane pranksters."

"Who?"

"Fred and George."

Aaron blinked, and Ginny felt the good feeling in her chest chip away slightly when she noticed the blankness on Aaron's face. "Fred – you mean, Headmaster Weasley?"

"Yeah. He used to be a prankster." That was before he became a soldier, and then a fanatic who Obliviated his family members. There was a measure of reserve in Aaron's face, Ginny noticed; obviously he was thinking about that, too. He was doing the analysis on her memory, after all.

"I looked – when you were in the kitchen – I looked at some of these photos. Were they from Hogwarts?"

"They are," Ginny said. She knew, without stepping any closer, exactly what pictures Aaron was referring to. She did not want to move any closer. There was a reason why she kept them on the mantelpiece, which was out of the way, and angled slightly so that the images would be shadowed when the light was on.

She stepped back, feeling the earth tilt slightly. The alcohol was going to her head rather quickly. "So tell me about the US."

Aaron was easy to talk to, largely because he could go on at length about something if he felt that he was being encouraged to. Ginny listened to him discuss the idiocy of Muggle-Magic relations in the States as they finished the first bottle. She tuned out the bit about Massachusetts's most recent Salem Council to ponder whether or not to pull out the brown ale. It would be a bit much. But Demme had basically told her not to come to work tomorrow. And she hadn't drunk much in the last month. But Aaron would probably think she hit the bottle like a seventy-year-old hag.

Aaron stopped talking when she got up. "Go on," Ginny said, from the kitchen. "Something about Salem?"

But by the time she'd come back with the two ales, Aaron's rant about the Salem Council had petered out. Ginny supposed there was only a very limited amount of dialogue that could be generated about Muggle-Magic relations in the States. He was evidently very well informed on the topic, Ginny thought.

"How do you like the ale?"

"Oh, it's good," Aaron said. He took another sip. "It tastes different from what I'm used to back in Boston. It's better."

Ginny chuckled. "I'd be worried if you said it was worse." She tapped her finger against the side of the glass. "Ron was never into beer, actually. He went from butterbeer straight to firewhiskey."

"Oh," Aaron said in a vague, polite tone.

It hit Ginny like a hammer that he'd never known Ron. Aaron had never known any members of her family before they'd died. Maybe he'd never even heard of them – maybe he thought that her family as it was now was supposed to be – as though Ron, Charlie, Fred, and her father had never existed. How could he think that? And maybe the others, since they weren't famous, but Ron – how could he not have heard of Ron?

"The first time I got drunk in London was from firewhiskey," Aaron said. "Still can't stand the taste of it."

Ginny managed to force out a chuckle. "Yeah."

"So, uh…" Aaron cleared his throat. "Did – did Ron like firewhiskey?"

Ginny nodded. But it was no use. The tears were coming – strong, inevitable, coursing into her eyes from reservoirs she didn't know she had in the bones of her back. She let out a gasp, bit her mouth to stop it. This was humiliating, to cry in front of Aaron, especially on their first date – oh Merlin, why was she crying? But she couldn't stop.

"Ginny?"

She set aside her beer and bent over so that her face was buried in her knees. The sobs forced her stomach to jut against her ribs, but she kept as still as she could. She tried to focus – to focus on how horrifically awkward this was – and it was working a little bit, maybe…

Aaron had moved closer. "Ginny, what's the matter?"

She didn't know. She didn't know. Of course it was something to do with everyone who'd died and the War, and how even the streets felt nothing like they did before, and how – how Aaron didn't know it. But that wasn't enough to make someone bawl. Ginny debated lifting her head to shake it, but by then Aaron had put a hesitant arm around her. The floodgates opened again. She was sobbing, and the tears soaked the skin of her arm.

"Shh, shh," Aaron muttered, moving his hand in little circles against her back, "it'll be okay…"

Aaron didn't know, Ginny thought. How could he know? Nobody could know. Not even Dumbledore in could have foreseen everything, or could have provided answers to what mattered. But in some ways, it didn't matter.

With a loud sniff, Ginny pushed herself back into an upright position and quickly wiped her eyes. She hated how she looked when she'd been crying. After Ron had died, she'd taken care to cry in the bathrooms and spell away the puffiness before going to class. It had mattered, somehow, to put up a good front, especially before all those Slytherins.

"Sorry," Ginny managed.

"Don't be," Aaron said. "It's hard, I know…"

He didn't know, she thought. But who could? When his left hand dropped down to rest against her leg, she turned her hand so that she could take his in her own.

qp qp qp

Snape flung his cape on his chair the moment he Apparated into his flat and began rummaging for a blank sheet of parchment. It was irritating how parchment had a habit of being absent when he needed it most.

He scribbled down notes from his meeting with Gui without pause; his mind worked best when he was lost in the heat of a thought. The conversation had been more productive than he'd hoped – he'd not have thought of the charm himself, even though he'd come up with it. Then he stopped. If he were to go on, he'd have to do actual brewing.

Snape set down his quill. It was late, and he was tired. Gui was wrong, he thought with a slightly bitter pang. He wasn't going to work through the night, lost in the intoxication of brewing, as he might have. He was old.

The fire had nearly gone out. His stomach felt empty, but he did not quite want to eat. And Tibby was probably fast asleep and dreaming of whatever house elves dreamed of.

Snape got up and went down the hall. He stopped suddenly, turned, and held himself absolutely still for a moment. "Potter?" he said.

It was quiet, still. Snape turned and resumed the walk to his room, shutting the door behind himself.

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_A/N2: This tumbled out sooner than I expected. Maybe some reviews will make the following chapters tumble out even faster?_ :)


	12. Before the Judgment

_A/N0: This used to be chapter 11 -- now it's chapter 12. There's been a chapter uploaded before this for your reading pleasure._

_A/N: As always, thanks to Procyon for the encouragement and edits._

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**Chapter 12: Before the Judgment**

Ginny hesitated.

It was not because there was actually any doubt what the results would be, and Hermione would be kind, very kind, maybe too kind. Perhaps it was her imagination, but it seemed as though the knowledge (or suspicion, at any rate) had awakened memories lost to her. She had dreamed, last night, of standing in the Burrow's kitchen – the afternoon light a yellow rectangle against the wall, the air cool – and talking to Fred, who had been smiling. Was that a memory, then? Or was it just a dream?

The Ministry door stared back at her. Ginny sighed and wished she had talked to Aaron about it, but it had been hard, somehow. Aaron was wonderful and sunny. Aaron had been in the States during the War. Ginny stepped forward and knocked.

There was a substantial pause before she heard Hermione's voice. "Ginny?"

"Yes," Ginny called. "It's me."

Another pause. "Come in. The door's unlocked."

She turned the knob and stepped in – and stopped. Hermione was sitting behind her desk, her belly jutting against the table. There was a steaming black mug of tea next to her, a snow globe paperweight that reminded Ginny strongly of Dumbledore's office. But what caught her attention was that Harry Potter was standing in a corner.

"Harry!" Ginny said. She stepped forward – stopped – stepped forward again. She felt suddenly confused without knowing why.

"Harry was talking to me before you came," Hermione said, looking between them. "We're not finished yet, but he said he wouldn't mind if you were here."

"Ginny," Harry said. He nodded and smiled.

Ginny returned the nod, still feeling as though she were missing something. She found a chair and sat in it. Harry, she noticed, was still standing; and why was he wearing such shabby clothes? She blinked. "Harry," she said, "how're you?"

Harry shrugged and smiled faintly. "I'm all right."

He looked strange, Ginny thought. He'd never been outside his Auror garbs during the war, and before that… that's right, he had those hand-me-downs from his awful relatives. But this pair of jeans at least fitted him, but why was his shirt ripped up like that? Had he been in a Muggle fight?

He exchanged a glance with Hermione and then added, with a chuckle that only intensified Ginny's bewilderment, "I've been better, though."

"Yeah – what's with the clothes?"

"Um." Harry looked down and back up. He gave another chuckle. "I… fell."

Ginny looked over at Hermione, but Hermione was looking at Harry; for the first time since walking in, Ginny noticed how tight the lines at Hermione's eyes were. She looked unusually pale.

"We were talking," Hermione began, and then stopped. "We were talking about what happened at Hogwarts a few days ago."

Ginny swallowed. She looked from Harry to Hermione, back to Harry again. He was nodding, slowly and with an odd smile on his face. Why was he smiling? And then the smile was gone; he was looking Ginny in the eye now.

"I'm sorry about what happened to Fred," he said. "I imagine he's in St. Mungo's right now?"

Ginny nodded.

Hermione shifted. "We were talking about – about the possible suspects." She shared a glance with Harry. "Both who could have killed Zabini, and who could have attacked Fred."

"Oh," said Ginny, faltering. Hadn't it been Fred who had killed Zabini (and with so terrible a curse – she could hardly imagine it), and Zabini who had knocked Fred out before that? But Hermione was implying – she was implying, wasn't she, that there were other possibilities? "W-who?"

There was, once again, that flickering glance between Hermione and Harry, which Ginny was at a loss to interpret.

"Well, there aren't many," Harry said. "Fred is no slouch. I don't know about Zabini, but I'd have been surprised if he was capable of having taken Fred out like that. Although he did get killed doing it."

"Zabini would have to have been strong," Hermione agreed, "or Fred's attacker would have had to be very… unexpected."

"Or both."

"Or both," Hermione said slowly.

But who? Ginny wondered. It almost seemed – strange though it was – that they had an idea of who it was, and that they were talking about this person with complete, silent understanding. But she couldn't think of anyone, anyone except (and it couldn't be?) –

"But You-Know-Who – " Ginny stopped dead.

"Seems like something he would do," Harry said, after a silence. He still sounded thoughtful, but he was smiling again now.

"Voldemort is dead," Hermione said softly.

Ginny glanced at Harry; he was still silent, still smiling like Crookshanks used to whenever he had stolen a ball of yarn, or hunted down a mouse.

"He is at least dead enough," Hermione went on, voice still quiet, "that we can't hold him responsible for what is happening now."

Harry's face changed. Ginny was startled by how quickly it happened, and what it changed into – it looked twisted, although Ginny couldn't for the life of her pin down if he had pulled his lips back, or if a different color had entered his eyes.

"Responsible? Huh." He pulled his arms out of his pockets and crossed them over his chest. "He's dead now, so we can't blame him for what he's done, can we? Because he's dead, so it's like he didn't do it, right?"

Then, just as suddenly and bewilderingly, his face changed back. It was closed, Ginny realized. That was why she hadn't walked across the room to give him a hug the moment she'd seen him; that was why she was sitting in this chair, such a distance from him. During the war, even though he'd had more secrets than anyone, his weariness had been plain. But Harry's face was closed now, and Ginny realized that she felt – if only slightly – frightened.

"Never mind," he said. "I've a question, Hermione."

Hermione stirred. "Go on?"

"Where are the dementors now?"

Hermione paused. "They're no longer at Azkaban. Why?"

"Just curious. And I could find out just as well from someone else, you know." Harry sounded amused.

"They're on North Rona," Hermione said. "It's seventy kilometers off the north coast of Scotland. We made a deal with the Muggle Prime Minister – it's not to be disturbed by anyone."

"And what do they feed on?"

"The energy currents from the auroras. That was one of the first things we did research on after the war was over – what could keep the dementors happy. It was actually the Americans who made the breakthrough. We made a deal with the dementors – they're not allowed to come to the mainland, but they may roam on the water in a twenty kilometer radius if they wish, as long as they don't prey on Muggle boats."

"They're happy with that?" A pause. "They're living with sheep."

Hermione was silent. "Harry, what do you want with them?"

"Nothing," he said tersely. He straightened. "Sorry. It's getting late. I should be going."

"To Severus?" Hermione said.

Harry's face did another set of changes. "No," he said, and his voice had such an unpleasant undercurrent that Ginny recoiled – or maybe it was from his sudden Disapparition, which seemed oddly aggressive.

Ginny let out a breath. She waited, but Hermione didn't say anything. "That was…" She stopped and changed tracks. "So who does he think hurt Fred?"

Hermione stirred. "I don't know," she said in an oddly quiet voice. Suddenly her hand went to her belly.

"Hermione – !"

"I'm all right," she muttered. She pushed her chair back so that she could turn and position her right hand on the table. "Any time now – and of all the times…"

"You're really pale, Hermione," Ginny said. She stepped forward. "Are you sure – Hermione? – "

"No, it's not starting," Hermione said. "I'm fine."

Ginny stepped back. There was sweat all over Hermione's face, and her bottom lip, which she was biting, looked white and bloodless. "I need to make a firecall to Severus. Ginny, could you – " Hermione stopped. "Oh, I'm so sorry. You were here for your report on the Wieder Denk potion."

"It's all right," Ginny said; she'd almost forgotten about it, but now her heart gave an extra leap. "Hermione, you should go home – you look awful."

"I'm all right." Hermione paused. "I'm sorry."

"Sorry for what?"

"Your test – it came back positive. And the wand responsible had a dragon heartstring in willow, between thirteen and sixteen inches long."

Ginny nodded. "Thank you."

"I'm sorry."

Ginny shook her head. She wanted to add that it was what she had expected, that she would've been greatly surprised if the results had come back negative, but she didn't. "Mum says 'hi.' She says that she'll bring over a pot of myrgum tea next time she has a chance. It's supposed to be great after giving birth – she had it after every one of us."

Hermione nodded. "Tell her I said thanks."

Ginny got up and went to the door. She stopped. "Hermione, take care of yourself." It was a strange thing to say, she thought. It reminded her of the war. But could the war ever end – truly end?

"Thanks," Hermione said, her face looking as translucent as a cloud over the moon. "You too, Ginny."

Ginny smiled, opened the door, and pushed it shut gently behind her.

qp qp qp

The boy Niles had only protested slightly when Snape suggested strongly that he wear some proper Wizarding robes for their outing to Diagon Alley.

"But I'm not a Wizard," Niles had groused.

"What would you propose going in? Those?"

Snape had found, with Tibby's help, a nightgown of uncertain age that fitted Niles well enough. Niles had worn it the last two days without complaining. The boy was still suffering, that much was clear.

"I'm not a Wizard," he had said after putting on the robes and consenting to have Tibby straighten his hair and even scrub the grim off his face. It was clear that he had cried, though Snape had not seen it. He was content to let the boy mourn in privacy: let the boy have that bit of dignity. The boy clearly wanted it; it was a sentiment Snape approved of.

"But you will be with me, and I am a wizard."

Niles had given him that street-scornful look. "And what would they think of you?"

Snape hadn't deigned to respond to that, but he had considered it. He knew what the headlines were currently blaring: EX-DEATH EATER IN ROMANTIC TRYST WITH BOY-WHO-LIVED, and that was the most benign of them. He had no illusions of the relish with which a reporter like Rita Skeeter would whip up a story around a photograph of Snape with the boy. But he did not care. The owls couldn't find him, and his business wouldn't be affected. And if Frost – Potter – saw it – then that was simply his problem.

Snape let the thought float in his mind before he shook himself out of it. "Have you taken the Floo before?"

The boy nodded warily. "I hate it."

"I do too," Snape said. He tossed a pinch of powder into the fire. "Call out 'Diagon Alley,' boy!"

Niles's voice was high and uncertain as he stepped through the grate. "Diagon Alley!"

Snape followed.

The day was bright and clear again, with a fair breeze. It was strangely pleasant to be outside, Snape thought: the start of school had been a solid three weeks ago, and so the streets weren't crowded with idiot children and their families. Plus, Snape thought morbidly, the Wizarding world hadn't quite recovered from the population depletion from the War. That would explain why walking outside seemed so nice.

"What's that?" Niles said suspiciously.

"It's a hag. You've never seen one before?"

"I have, but I've always wondered." He frowned, but his eyes were darting back and forth. "And what's that?"

"A goblin."

Niles nodded.

"You may keep asking questions if you like, Niles."

He nodded again. "And what's that?"

"What?"

"That thing over there, hanging from the sign."

"Merlin, do you not know what a cauldron is, boy?"

"How'd I know? I'm no Wizard."

"Hmm. We are about to find out," Snape said smoothly.

Niles looked up. "Huh?"

"We are paying a stop at Ollivander's. If you are magical – as I think you are – you will need a wand. And I am afraid your opinion on this topic doesn't matter. We are heading there right now."

Ollivander's had not gone through the war unscathed. In fact, it had been one of the first shops to be raided and destroyed by Death Eaters. But Ollivander must have been expecting it, for the only casualties were the three hundred odd temporarily-stocked wands in his shop, plus a wooden chair or two. Snape suspected that Dumbledore might've played a part in keeping the old man alive, but he wasn't sure. He would never know, either, nor did he care.

Niles, Snape could tell, disliked Ollivander right away.

"Quit touching me there!" he snapped when Ollivander guided him to the spindly chair.

"Niles," Snape said in a smooth, warning voice.

"A relative of yours, Professor Snape?"

"Fortunately not," Snape said, deciding not to correct the man's manner of addressing him.

"Ah," Ollivander said, blinking, "then I suppose it won't be as upsetting for you to learn that he hasn't a drop of magic in his body."

Niles glared and crossed his arms over his chest. Snape felt a strange, wry urge to smile. How strange it was to see this boy stand as he did, overgrown black hair brushed to either side of his face and the familiar robes clinging to the harsh angles of his body. "See? I told you so."

"Mr. Ollivander, we are here for your business, not your opinion," Snape said, took a seat, and proceeded to look out the window.

"Try this, boy, willow and dragon heartstring, flexible but with a good thrust. No – not like that, boy, I'm afraid you're holding the wrong end…"

Snape shut his eyes. When he had come here as an eleven-year-old boy, he'd been terribly nervous – not because he was unsure that he was a wizard, but because he had wanted to get the best wand possible. A special wand – something that would inform him that he was great, as he so wished to believe. Snape felt a smile work its way to his lips. The thirteen inches of ebony and dragon heartstring had served him as well as it could on his way to become… to become what? Potions Master, yes. And the foolish, lovelorn boy of seventeen who had so blindly sold himself into double servitude. A tool for one master, and a – plaything for the other. This body that he'd been born with – which was feeling creakier every night and was complaining about the hardness of Ollivander's irritating chair – felt worn. But it had never felt broken.

Snape frowned. His thoughts had ended up, again, on Potter. Frost.

"Are you done yet?" Niles groused.

"Here," Ollivander said. "No, never mind. This one."

"It's not going to work."

"That seems likely," Ollivander said, with an infinitesimal tilt of his head to Snape, which Snape ignored.

It took more than half in an hour for Ollivander and Niles to proceed through all the wands in the shop. Snape watched the pile of remaining wands shrink and dwindle, and when it disappeared, he stood.

"I'm afraid none of the wands here fits him," Ollivander said. "You could try elsewhere," he added.

"We might indeed," Snape said, putting a hand on Niles's shoulder. "Thank you, Mr. Ollivander." He stepped out of the shop, steering Niles in front of him.

"Are we really trying elsewhere?"

"No," Snape said.

They went past the apothecary, which made Severus pause; and the extension of Honeydukes, which made Niles slow down. Snape paused again as they were passing Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour. The tables, which each had a brightly-coloured umbrella open above them, were mostly empty; the tabletops gleamed in what he supposed was an inviting manner.

Snape turned to Niles. "You can't have lived in the crackle den all your life, boy."

Niles frowned. "Huh?"

"I am curious about your living arrangements before you met Zabini."

"Living arrangements?"

"Were you always a street brat?" Snape said, losing his temper and instantly regretting it.

"Yes," Niles said, unperturbed. "Only, there was this old woman who left food out for us. We slept under this tent thing she kept in the winter. Once we got into a fight, though, and some girl got her face cut, and so she took the tent away for a whole month. That was pretty awful."

"Indeed. What was the woman's name?"

"I don't know – Hubbard or something. I think she was magic, or something, because I got the same feeling with – with the other people, that I got with her. Like things happening when you were blinking. She's dead now, I think."

"How do you know?"

"Her place got blown up. I checked."

"I'm sorry."

Niles shrugged. "I'm not sure, actually, if she really was magic, 'cause I never saw her with a wand."

"Mm. She might've been a Squib."

"A Squib?"

"A person born in a magical society who lacks the ability to do magic."

Niles nodded, blinking his eyes. Snape recognized that as a sign of the boy's brain at work. "Does the other way happen? You know, someone without magic actually having magic?"

"I expect you mean Muggleborn," Snape said dryly. "Yes, it does happen. In fact, that witch – Granger – is Muggleborn."

"Huh? Granger?"

"The woman whose head appeared in the grate."

"Oh, right – she wanted some brimstone, didn't she?"

"Limnstone, boy. And she did."

"What's limnstone for?"

Snape shrugged. "It can be used for amplifying magic. Rather harmless, as it has no effect on magic done with ill-will attached." He did not say what he thought Granger wanted it for. He supposed they had found a bit of residue on Fred Weasley or the crackle in his office; it would've been typical for someone as scrupulous as Granger to want to amplify that signal and track down the perpetrator. He found himself wishing them neither luck nor misfortune on that endeavor.

"How does it know that there's no ill-will?"

"An interesting question," Snape said. He frowned at the glass display of the ice cream parlor, in which oversized cones were spinning on three orthogonal axes at once. "That could best be explained by – "

"Professor Snape!"

Snape inclined his head. "Weasley, Skonsor." He frowned. "I see you've made a trip to the apothecary."

Ginny Weasley nodded. She looked rather out of breath. "Hermione – Hermione's giving birth!"

"_Is_ she?"

Both of them nodded; Skonsor pushed up the glasses that were threatening to slide off his nose. "She wanted some powdered albatross feet, so we went to get some."

Snape frowned. "Did she say why?"

"No," Weasley said, "but have you seen Harry? She wants him to be there."

"I have not seen Potter in several days," Snape said tersely.

"I figured," Weasley said.

Snape narrowed his eyes. "When did _you_ last see him, Weasley?"

"Hermione's office, two days ago." Her face clouded. "He looked a bit off, and his clothes looked like he'd been in a fight. Er – a Muggle fight."

Snape snorted. He supposed it was too much to hope for that Potter had come out of that with a bruise or two. "Granger did not tell you why she wanted the albatross feet?"

"No," Weasley said.

"Is there something wrong about her having it?" Skonsor said.

Snape hesitated. "One of the uses for powdered albatross feet is as a magical catalyst, and, as I'm sure you know, giving birth is a strongly magical event. It is also a very dangerous event to be fiddling around with, if that's what she has planned." Snape's voice had turned harsh halfway through; he saw Skonsor's mouth stiffening as well.

"Hey, hey," Niles started, "that bloke – he's taking photos – "

Weasley turned sharply. "Reporter," she muttered. "_Accio _camera! Rats, he's got a Slippery Hex on it." She paused. "_Wingardium leviosa_!"

"Thank you," Snape said with genuine gratitude. He dropped the camera and stepped on it. "Weasley, you had better give me the albatross feet. Merlin knows what Granger has cooked up in that Gryffindor mind of hers."

"I think – " Skonsor said, just as Weasley was looking hesitantly at her purchase, "that Hermione might have a good reason for wanting the powder. I'm sure she wouldn't jeopardize – anything."

There was a pause; they were at an impasse. Snape snorted and crossed his arms. "Very well. I take no responsibility."

Weasley stopped short.

"What's the matter?" Skonsor asked, instantly looking concerned. (So the Weasley mating instinct was acting again? Snape thought. Very well.)

"Nothing," Weasley said, "it's just that Hermione really wanted Harry to be there."

"It can't possibly be too difficult to locate him," Snape said dryly.

"Ah, right," Skonsor said, eyes lighting up. "The trolleriometer."

Snape nodded. He turned to Niles and paused.

"I can take him with me," Weasley offered, "and then you can pick him up from St. Mungo's. Niles, is it?"

Snape hesitated. The boy was frowning and looking understandably lost. "Niles?"

"What's St. Mungo's?"

"A hospital." When the boy still failed to respond, Snape tilted his head at Weasley. "You remember her, don't you, Niles? She was one of the Aurors who – ah – rescued us."

A bit of the puzzlement on Niles's face cleared. "Okay, I guess." He looked up quickly at Snape, who attempted to arrange his face into vaguely reassuring lines.

"Be careful with him, Weasley," Snape said. "He does not know magic." He turned. "Well? Any time now, Skonsor."

qp qp qp

The trolleriometer was a rather clever invention, Snape had to admit. He watched Skonsor hold his wand above the needle, which was floating on the surface of the clear, syrup-like liquid. He could see, just barely, the tip of the needle angled downward.

Skonsor drew his wand back and scribbled something on a sheaf of parchment on his desk.

"Well?" Snape said.

"He's actually very close," Skonsor said hesitantly. "The signal is strong, and the dip indicates he's probably just somewhere in London."

"Somewhere in London," Snape repeated. "Remarkably specific."

Skonsor seemed unfazed. "It seems to be pointing to somewhere around Diagon Alley or Charing Cross Road. Maybe a ten or so kilometers to the east."

Snape was silent for a moment. "To the east, you say?"

"Yes."

"Then I have a very good idea of where he might be," Snape snapped. "I will return in no more than five minutes if he is not there – otherwise, you may assume that I have found him, and will endeavor to have him go to St. Mungo's. Understand?"

Skonsor nodded. "Do you think maybe I should go with you?" A pause. "He's very powerful."

Snape stopped. He stared critically at the man in front of him. "I doubt you would be able to do anything to him if you came with me," he said coolly and Disapparated.

The room was dark and silent when he Apparated. Snape held still and listened, as he had learned to do in the years of the war: silence. The fire in the grate had gone out; Tibby's work, probably. The curtains were drawn. The copy of the _Daily Prophet_ was still open on the dining room table, where he'd left it that morning.

He went down the hall and peered into the guest room. He held his wand in front of him for good measure: nothing again. Snape frowned. He went back into the hall, walking slowly, and paused in front of the bathroom. He could sense nothing. There was only his own room left. He gave the door a slight push, and it tilted open.

Snape frowned. "Potter?" The man sprawled on his bed made no response. His chest, covered by the white fabric of that Muggle shirt, was rising and falling – but too quickly for him to have been asleep. "Potter!" Snape strode to the windows and yanked back the curtains. "Do you hear me, Potter?"

Potter made an odd mewing noise and jerked away from the light.

"Don't play these games with me, Potter." Still no response. Snape let his lips curl into a full-throttled sneer. "Well? You've no words for your host after breaking in and throwing yourself onto his bed?" He stopped himself; he didn't know why he felt suddenly so angry. But he knew how to deal with anger.

A moment later, he had become calm again, and the anger was nothing more than a tight ember at the back of his mind. Snape frowned. "Potter, are you sick?" It was obvious; how hadn't he noticed it at once? Snape went swiftly to the other side of the bed. "Potter?"

Potter's face was pale, and his breath was coming in short spasms. There was sweat all over his face – his forehead, cheeks, and even his neck were soaked. His shirt was wet. It was ripped, too, at the bottom, showing a patch of Potter's torso, the dusting of black hair on his skin. The hands were lax but moving slowly, slowly next to the face –

Potter's eyes were open.

"You idiot," Snape hissed, his heart rate unreasonably fast. "What did you do?" He paused, feeling almost afraid. "Crackle?"

Potter shut his eyes.

"Was it not?" Snape demanded. Then he pulled back, gripping himself once more. He hated seeing Potter in the light, seeing the face he so remembered, the face that was so beautiful to him. "And I see you've decided to degrade yourself with Muggle garb. What an admirable choice."

Potter's eyes were still shut when he spoke. "Stop it."

"Stop what?" Snape got up. "Do you know that Granger is giving birth right now?"

The idiot finally opened his eyes again. "Hermione? – right now?"

"No, tomorrow, you idiot. Yes, right now. She wants to see you. She's at St. Mungo's. Why are you shaking your head?"

"I don't want to go."

Snape was silent for a moment. "Your immaturity astonishes me yet again." Snape crossed his arms. "Well? If for nothing else, you should go in for some crackle treatment." He paused. "How much did you do? A gram, two grams? A whole brick of it? Given the amount of magic you have attached to your soul – " He stopped. The anger wasn't enough to keep him going.

"Wouldn't that be good?" Potter said softly. "All this magic, all this evil in me gone at last."

"You idiot! Do you think you're Voldemort?" He clamped his jaw shut. Potter was laughing, lightly and to himself, as though Snape had said the funniest thing in the world. "Even if the magic detaches from your body, as you seem so idiotically intent on having it do, it is impossible to predict where it might go. Needless to say, it would also leave you dead, or insane, or a squib – possibly all three."

Potter laughed again. "A dead, insane squib? Hm, can you be dead and insane at the same time?"

Snape was still struggling for a suitably scathing response when Potter's face snapped shut. "I dislike it when you call me Potter. I wish you would stop calling me Potter."

Snape stopped. There was something in Potter's voice that was unpleasant. It sounded taunting. "Well then, what would you prefer me to call you? Frost?"

Potter hesitated. "Yeah, why not – why not Frost? Why not _Riddle_?" He stopped, looking almost to be relishing the silence. Snape watched him, his chest too tight to breathe. "That's who you think I'm like, don't you?"

"I'm afraid you are being presumptuous," Snape said as coldly as he could manage. "I think no such thing."

Potter shook his head and made an irritating clucking noise. "You're such a bad liar, Snape."

"Indeed."

"Well? Are we going to St. Mungo's or not?"

Snape hesitated. Potter's face, though pale, no longer looked quite so tormented. It was as though he had managed to switch off the effects of the crackle with no more than a whim. "Granger, I was told, has been asking for you persistently."

"Then let's go." Potter got up and stepped into the hallway. Snape followed. "I don't really feel like Apparating."

"We'll Floo, then," Snape said. He held out the container. "Potter? Are you all right?"

Potter nodded. He reached out a hand, but instead of taking a pinch of the powder, he clutched the mantelpiece.

"P – " Snape clamped his mouth shut before he could finish. Why couldn't he bring himself to call the man in front of him Frost, or Jonathan? Or even Harry? He wanted to reach out a hand, but it was as if there was an invisible wall between them.

Potter lifted his other hand and took a pinch of the powder. "St. Mungo's, you said?"

Snape nodded. Then, moving swiftly, he set the container on his mantelpiece and took a pinch himself. "Don't move – I'll go with you. I don't want you falling out of the wrong grate." But even as he turned, he heard the sucking noise of the Floo at work, and saw the green tinge of the fire from the corner of his eyes.

qp qp qp

Ginny had not expected Niles to be so obviously from the street. She'd taken him with her to the canteen to buy three bars of chocolate; they came back with five.

"Would you have paid for it?" he asked challengingly.

"Yes," Ginny replied, feeling incredulous.

"Oh," Niles said. "Well, I can put two back, if you want. They wouldn't notice."

Ginny bit her lip. "It's okay – this once." She hoped it was okay; she hadn't exactly planned to endorse theft when she'd suggested taking Niles to St. Mungo's. "Go ahead and have a bar. Have you had Wizarding chocolate before?"

Niles hesitated. "I'm not sure."

"Go on, try it." Ginny watched him peel back the wrapper and take a hesitant bite. He got a chunk of it smeared over his mouth, she noticed, but he didn't seem to have realized it.

The fireplace turned green. Aaron stepped out.

"There you are. Where's Snape? And Harry?"

"Snape said he knew where Potter was. I didn't follow. He wouldn't let me." Aaron hedged towards the chocolate. "Wow, five bars? Can I have one?"

Niles looked at him consideringly before handing one over. "You owe me now," he said rudely.

"Hmm. What do you want?"

Niles shrugged, his features arranged in a poker-face expression.

Aaron wasn't bad with teenagers, Ginny thought. "Niles, Professor Snape said that you don't know any magic? Do you want Aaron to teach you some? He knows a lot of magic."

"I'm not magic at all," Niles said. "I'm Muggle."

"Oh," Ginny said. Somehow, she hadn't been expecting this.

The fireplace turned green again. Remus Lupin stepped out.

"Professor," Ginny greeted. She felt a surge of happiness; Remus was one of the few remaining links to the old days, and he hadn't changed too much – losing all his friends before entering the second war probably had that effect. Plus, he was even funnier now that he'd stopped being a professor.

"Ginny, it's Remus," he said. "Hello – Aaron, is it? I think Hermione introduced us. How is Hermione at the moment?"

"Still in there," Ginny said. "It hasn't been an hour yet."

"In there? She's – having a baby right there?" Niles said. He frowned. "It's really quiet. I thought women made tons of noises when they were doing it."

Ginny paused. She could see Remus give Niles one of his placidly considering looks. "His name is Niles," Ginny said. "He's with Snape."

"Ah, with dear old Severus," Remus said, as though everything were clear. "And how is he?"

"Last I saw him of him, he was going to fetch Potter," Skonsor volunteered.

"I see," Remus said. He turned. "And how are you Ginny – and your mother?"

Ginny nodded. She wanted to say that Hermione and Harry seemed to think someone other than her brother was a crackle-dealing murderer, but she wasn't sure if she was actually supposed to know that. Plus, Hermione was giving birth and Harry hadn't contacted any of them for days. "Could be worse," she said, and smiled.

The door at the end of the hall banged open. Three people stepped through. Ginny frowned. Why were Mad-Eye Moody and Jack Demme here? She felt her suspicion turn into alarm as she remembered what had happened just before they had broken Harry from the ice, when Fred had still been conscious – were they here to try to take over Hermione's Department again? But no; Jack Demme had sided with Hermione.

"Hi Boss," Ginny greeted. "Moody."

"Granger isn't done yet?" Moody demanded, clunking to the door.

"Alastor," Jack Demme chided, looking around amiably. "That's hardly the first thing to ask."

"Well, if the Granger girl wants us here, she should bloody well have explained why."

Ginny started. Hermione can't want all of them to be her baby's godfathers? But that was ridiculous. She turned her gaze methodically from person to person in the room; Remus, she noticed, was doing the same thing.

"Well?" Moody demanded. "Are we all going to sit around until Granger finishes giving birth? And where's Potter? I'd expect that he'd be here."

The fireplace turned green. Remus was the first to move in greeting when Harry stepped out, but Ginny was aware of something else: Niles had begun trembling. She leaned towards him, half out of instinct, but started when he turned to face her with eyes that looked as though they were burning.

"He did it," Niles muttered.

"What?" Ginny said. She was distracted. The fireplace had flared green again; Moody was trying to break into whatever Remus and Harry were saying; someone was opening and closing a door down the hall, repeatedly.

"He – that man," Nile said. "He killed my master. He killed Zabini."

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_A/N2: I'd like to thank everyone who is continuing after that 12 month+ wait... Please review!_


	13. Another Death

_A/N: Again, thanks to Procyon for the beta._

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**Chapter 13: Another Death**

Ginny's mind blanked. There was too much going on, too many people in the same short hospital hallway – Moody and Demme and Remus next to the hallway door, which was opening and shutting (why was it doing that?); Aaron standing just behind her; Professor Snape, and Harry.

Ginny drew back. Harry was looking at her, and he was smiling as he had a few days ago in Hermione's office. Why did he look as though he knew what Niles had whispered? He'd said it with such a quiet, shaky voice that only she could have heard it. And why would Harry eavesdrop – if he had? There was that feeling, like a hot bath of confusion building in her brain again, but she pushed it aside: she noticed, fully for the first time, that both doors at either end of the hospital corridor were opening and closing, opening and closing by themselves.

She felt Aaron move to her side. "What's going on?" she asked.

"I don't know," Aaron said. He sounded tense. "It's magic – obviously – but it's not the normal sort of magic. I don't think it's being done with a wand."

The others didn't seem to know what was going on either, Ginny thought. Moody, she noted, was in his battle position: hunched by the wall, wand drawn, his good eye fixed on the flapping doors, his magical one going berserk.

"Whatever this is, I must say that they've done a good job on getting us all in one place," Demme said in a conversational voice.

Moody stumped his leg on the ground. "They'll have a few surprises coming their way, mark my words." He humphed. "Who's with Granger in there? Her Muggle husband and the nurse? Anyone checked on her since coming here?"

"It'll be locked," Harry said.

Ginny glanced at his face; everyone did in the pause. He just looked annoyed, she thought, but that was it.

Moody humphed again, and hobbled to the door. "_Alohomora!_" he growled. "_Patefacio_!" He made a complicated motion. "_Mellon_!" When he tried the knob, it didn't turn. "We could blast through it."

"Granger's inside," Jack Demme said. "Alastor, you're not serious?"

"Hmm? Why not?"

He wasn't going to do it, Ginny thought. Her dad had always said that Moody acted first and talked later, and loved riling up his colleagues. She turned to Niles. He hadn't said anything and was just staring fixedly at the ground, but his shoulders were wedged up against his neck; he looked tense enough to snap, Ginny thought. It reminded her strangely of Snape.

Aaron leaned over. "I think I know what it is," he whispered.

Ginny leaned back; her boss and Moody were too busy bickering, and Snape was glaring down the wall. "What?"

"This is definitely wandless magic. I did a control-index charm, and it's the lowest I've ever seen. There's got to be a powerful source somewhere near. It's got to be very strong." He faltered. "I think it's from Hermione's birth."

"What? But it can't be that strong – "

"It isn't, but she's focusing and amplifying it. Remember the albatross feet? And if she got hold of something like century-old ginseng or purified limnstone – "

Ginny swallowed. She knew what he must be thinking; it was on her mind, too. "It'll be all right. Hermione wouldn't do anything stupid." Ginny gave a mostly-steady laugh. "She's way too smart for that."

"No, but she's also very – " Aaron paused. "Very… brave."

"Of course," Ginny said, not quite understanding. "She was a Gryffindor."

Aaron's gaze was flickering towards something. "But she might do something if she thinks – "

Ginny turned her head, and suddenly everything fell into place. It was obvious, so obvious, now, why Hermione had looked so tense and determined the last time Ginny had seen her. She had known – or suspected strongly enough to do what she was doing now. It explained, too, why Harry had that strange look on his face –

It was enough to make her stagger. Aaron must've grabbed her, or her knees, from years of enduring and enduring, were too iron to bend. When, after a moment, she focused her eyes on what she was staring at, she found that it was on Harry. Harry was looking at her. He knows, she thought, but he has been waiting for it this whole time.

"We could net the blast with a Quilt Charm," Moody said, good eye glinting. "But never mind. There has to be a better way of doing it."

"You could knock," Snape said dryly.

Moody gave him a dark look.

Aaron cleared his throat. "I think that might be a good idea, actually."

Nobody said anything. Everyone, Ginny thought, was too busy giving each other brief glances. She took a step forward, and felt the gazes settle on her. "I can knock."

Moody snorted. "I can too, Weasley." He stepped aside. "Well?"

Ginny went to the door, which was smooth and white like all St. Mungo's doors, and paused. It was hard to hear anything above the whir of moving air and the clapping of other doors opening. She tapped on the wood.

After a pause, the door opened – inward, but Ginny had to step back because of the strong wind that suddenly flowed into the hall. She steadied herself and opened her eyes; was Hermione in there? There was a bed in the back, wasn't there? –

"No! No, I will _not_ leave her there!"

Ginny stumbled back, narrowly avoiding being rammed into by Hermione's husband Robert as he tumbled out the room. At the last moment, he managed to grab the door frame with one hand. The howling increased. How strange it was, thought Ginny, to see a man clutching the doorway in a fight against what looked like a hurricane-strength wind, which died only three feet away.

"What's going on here?" Moody demanded.

The nurse, who'd tumbled halfway across the hall, pushed herself into a standing position. Remus, who was near, graciously gave her a hand.

"She's invoked something from the birthing," she said breathlessly. "The signs are all there – it's a textbook case. I'll confess, the only time I've actually encountered one was in a textbook. I've never seen a birthing invocation in my life – horribly dangerous, they are."

Robert was still struggling. Ginny frowned; it was rather painful to watch.

"I told him there was nothing he could do about it, but he wouldn't believe me," the nurse said, pulling at her robes nervously. She shook her head. "The poor man. A Muggle too."

"Her – _mi_ – "

"_Stupefy_!"

Moody's spell lashed into Robert's body, and his body tumbled down the corridor like a wet rag.

"Something gentler?" Jack Demme said coolly, hurrying to the fallen man with Remus.

"Granger wanted something," Moody growled, "and that Muggle was in the way. That's all." He lowered his wand. "Well? What now?"

They were all quiet. The sound from the doors was strangely comforting. It sounded like the air blowing through the white bed cloths Ginny and her mother used to hang outside the Burrow, and how they flapped, almost alive, with the wind.

Moody turned to the nurse. "What else did the textbook say about birthing magic?"

"Well, I'm not sure, it's been such a long time…" The nurse trailed off, clearly terrified of Moody's magical eye. "I think there was an element of – of clemency, or justice in it?"

"Clemency and justice are two very different things," Snape interrupted dryly. He crossed his arms over his chest, and Ginny was reminded sharply of Potions class. "The principle of a childbirth is the bringing of something innocent and pure into the world. The equilibrium action would therefore to be the destruction of something evil and tainted."

"So Granger thinks one of us has something evil and tainted about us, eh?" Mooney sniggered. "I say, Snape, I _do_ wonder whom it is she wants. Hmm? Possibly – you?

Ginny was surprised when Snape's response was merely to stare, stony-faced, at the other man. "Perhaps," he said at last. "But I think not."

She wants Harry, Ginny thought.

"She wants him," Niles said. He'd lifted his hand and was pointing a finger straight at Harry. "She wants that man."

"I think," said Remus, "that is rather ridiculous, Niles."

Moody grunted. He was realizing things, Ginny thought. Her father had always said that Moody was no slouch. "Well, Potter? Whom do you think Granger wants?"

Harry smiled again. Of everyone standing in the hallway, he was the only one wearing Muggle clothes, Ginny thought; he was the only one smiling. "There's probably a very simple way to tell whom the magic wants in there with her."

"Go on, Potter."

"We could try walking through."

Aaron nodded. "That would work." He added, after a moment's hesitation, "I think she'd want three to go in. It's generally how invoked magic works – amplification works in threes."

Everyone nodded. Hermione would want Severus and Harry, Ginny thought; she'd asked for them specifically. But the third person – ?

"Well then," Moody said, tapping his wooden leg sharply on the floor. "Everyone line up! You included – what's your name?"

"Skonsor," Aaron said. "I don't think she will want me."

"Why not?"

He hesitated.

"Speak up, boy!" Moody barked.

"She'd want Professor Snape and Harry," Ginny cut in, partly because Aaron jumped every time Moody's eye went in his direction. "She asked for them specifically."

"Oh? Well now, Snape. Accused or accuser?"

Snape curled his lips effortlessly in a sneer. "There is also the role of arbiter."

"Keep dreaming, Snape. Thought you could outrun your past, eh?" Moody nodded at Potter. "He's probably the arbiter. Got himself a good chunk of power too, I've heard. Isn't that right, Potter?"

Ginny looked between Snape and Harry, for a moment wondering if it was true. She didn't realize that she was, in fact, hoping terribly against hope for it to be true until Niles spoke up again.

"_He_ – Snape – is the arbiter fellow. I'm the one saying that _that_ man did the killing. I'm the one she wants to have say it."

"Yes," Harry said, before anyone else could say anything, "Hermione would know to choose you, wouldn't she?" He shook his head. "She's so smart that she's stupid."

Ginny turned; Aaron had too, and she found herself sharing a worried glance with him. For the first time, it occurred to her fully that she knew nothing of this magic and what its outcomes could be. She did not even know why this boy Niles was – if he was right, and Harry was agreeing with him – the accuser. If Harry had indeed hurt and framed Fred, why wasn't she in that role?

Harry stepped closer to the door. "All right. I'm going, just as she wants – just was everyone wants." He turned and said, in a voice that was almost a snarl, to everyone, "Don't forget to watch and listen to everything. That's what you're here for." He stepped through, and Ginny had only just enough time to think that it sounded as though the air had swallowed him into another world, before Niles, robes hitched up, darted through the doorway as well.

Everyone was exchanging glances again. Everyone, thought Ginny, except Snape. He was still standing with his back to the wall, his eyes fixed on the door – or maybe on nothing.

"Snape," Remus said, before anyone could speak, "tell me, what's this all about? What did that boy mean about Harry?"

"Stand back, Lupin," Moody growled. A silence lapsed, which wasn't very silent with the hum of wind and doors opening, shutting, opening. "Snape?"

Snape stirred. "The best counter for limnstone is charcoal – any kind will do, but Slug and Jiggers will be sure to have it stocked."

Aaron nodded, but Moody growled, "What are you talking about, Snape?"

Snape ignored him. "I'd also recommend some myrgum tea for Granger."

"Right," Ginny said. That's what Mum always recommends, she thought. Snape was striding towards the doorway, having taken something out of his robes as he did so – a ring, gray and rather plain, it looked like – when he stopped. "And do keep the _Prophet_ out, if possible," he said.

Then he stepped through. The air whirred. Abruptly, the thudding of doors stopped, like a heartbeat. It was quiet.

qp qp qp

The curtains were drawn, and the light on the ceiling was out. Snape was glad that it was dark; it would give him the illusion that he wasn't being watched and overheard by the crowd outside. Jonathan – Potter – was right: Granger was so smart that she was stupid.

He knew very little about birthing invocations, which was because there was very little literature on the subject; which, he supposed, was because few women were reckless – or powerful – enough to do it. Where had he read it? What book at Hogwarts had it been in?

Potter was leaning over Granger's form. Snape hurried to the other side of her bed. She looked, Snape thought, properly unconscious.

"Stupid girl," Snape muttered.

"That's my friend you're insulting," Potter said.

Snape straightened. He bit back the numerous remarks he could have made to that, and turned. The door was half open, and he could see, though not hear, Moody and Lupin in heated conversation. The werewolf probably couldn't believe that his godson was – Snape held back the thought. The air stirred dangerously. He was the arbiter here.

Niles was slouched in a chair at one side of the room. There were two chairs; the other one was occupied by a bookbag and a few things that Snape thought were probably Muggle candy. It probably had belonged to Hermione's husband – the name, as usual, escaped him.

When Snape turned back, he found Potter with that new, inane smile on his face.

"What?"

"That expression doesn't become you, Potter."

"Oh, I'm sorry. What are you going to do – declare me guilty?"

Snape swept across the room. It occurred to him, then, that he hated Potter. What had he ever seen in the man? (It didn't matter what his name had been – Frost, Jonathan, even Riddle.) But what could one expect from a lovesick and lonely seventeen-year-old? If he truly had power to arbitrate this magic, then yes, he would declare Potter guilty of – many things, among them gross immaturity and the sort of egoistic self-absorption Snape hated above all else. If he truly had the power of a judge – but even then, he had no idea what judgment he would level. That things somehow were different?

Granger moaned.

"We'd better hurry," Snape said. "It's unwise to wait too long." From the little he could remember reading, invoking birthing magic put a stasis on the birth – but too long of a hold could kill the infant. He remembered, then, that the 's's in the text had been written like 'f's; it was an old manuscript and had a line that looked like: _powerf that adminifter clemenfy_. It had been in his sixth year. He had read ravenously that year.

"I'm waiting," Potter said.

Snape turned. Niles was slouched, motionless, half-lit by what light came through the curtains. "Niles?"

The boy turned his head so that he was looking the other way, but remained silent. Snape waited; patience was not his strong suit. "Niles? Are you ready?"

Another pause. Finally the boy looked up; he had been crying again, Snape realized. The boy shook his head.

Potter laughed.

"Did you do something to him, Potter?" Snape hissed, whirling around.

"What, me? Me? Would I?"

Niles rose. "You killed him."

Snape blinked. The air changed, as it had when he had tried to level judgment on Potter prematurely. If he could see the currents of magic, he was sure there would be a thick string running from the boy to Potter, with tendrils stroking his own neck. Snape cleared his throat. "Killed him?"

"He killed my master. Blaise Zabini."

There was a pause. "And why is this a serious crime that you can claim, Niles?"

Niles shrugged and looked sullenly at their feet. Snape caught a glimpse of people crowding in the doorway, but the air seemed to be busy clouding their faces. He was sure it was also compelling – gently but with inexorable insistence – at the boy's mind to answer. "I dunno – because I was Bound to him, I reckon. An' – " He was struggling with the words, or the words were struggling with him to emerge. "An' he let me feel what magic was like."

Snape hid his surprise. So despite the boy's incessant protests about being a Muggle, there was some truth to his being magic. Here was a Muggle who, by being Bound, could feel magic through his body – and who felt it all evaporate suddenly.

"That's wha' he did for me," Niles said quietly, and Snape felt something that was dangerously close to pride.

Potter chuckled. It was an unfriendly sound. "What else?"

"You killed him, and it was with somethin' awful. An' – an' not only that, you said someone else did it. You said your friend did it."

Niles's voice had risen. Snape stared. How could the boy have known? The magic must be giving him the knowledge, somehow. Snape glanced at the curtains, the door; he couldn't tell how the air was moving.

"Go on," Potter said.

"You killed people too, years ago. You killed two people, and you made a lot other people die. You broke the mind of someone who wouldn't have betrayed your parents if you'd let him be. You left the person who loved you and hid away out of your cowardice."

Snape swallowed. Not all of this was material he had known. He glanced between the two of them: Potter was still staring coldly at the boy. "Go on."

"You did all of that stuff – an' you did it because you thought it was hopeless, that you couldn't change what you could, or maybe even because you _liked_ the hopelessness of it. That's why you did it!" Niles had onto his feet. "That's what was your sin was – you were making the sin of despair!"

Niles was certainly getting worked up, Snape thought. He considered stepping in to prevent the boy from doing anything drastic, but his tirade seemed to have ended. Snape held still. He turned, knowing what was to happen next.

"Well, Potter? Would you like to respond to these accusations?"

Potter turned. His eyes glinted when their gazes met. "What do _you_ think of all of this, Severus Snape?"

"That's hardly the question at hand, Potter, although I know the concepts of 'topicality' and 'relevance' are exceedingly difficult topics for – " He stopped; he was getting carried away. "Did you do what you have been accused of, Potter?"

"Yes. And no." Potter crossed his arms. "You haven't answered me yet, Severus Snape. I want to know what you think."

"I am the arbiter – I don't judge. That particular role is taken by the magic."

"What if I want you to judge? What if I tell you you don't have to be the bloody arbiter anymore?"

"You _have_ to, Potter – "

"What if I don't want to have any part in this thing anymore?"

Snape gritted his teeth. The air was not concentrating on him, he knew; it was focusing on Potter, who, save for the fringe of his hair shivering slightly, seemed wholly unaffected. "The invocation has begun, Potter, so we _must_ see it to the end."

Potter had moved to the side of Granger's bed. "Or else what?"

Snape moved to the other side of the bed. Snape dropped his eyes; Granger was paler than usual and her breath was coming fast, but Snape had no idea if these symptoms were atypical of women in the middle of giving birth. "Or else you may very well kill Granger and her baby."

Potter laughed. "That's melodramatic of you, Snape. Well then? What does the magic want me to do? Apologize? Be all penitent? Cut my wrists over it?"

There was no time for this idiocy, Snape thought, but something made him turn before he could speak. Niles was standing and holding a wand – his wand, Snape realized. How had the boy gotten it? And why, if the boy knew no magic – ?

The air was stirring, and there was a faint green light at the boy's feet. Snape stared at it. The feeling tingling his skin was familiar: sickly and dead, like an ancient crypt. The green light rose. Potter flung out his hand with a shout even before Niles could pronounce the spell. The world froze. Snape blinked, for the magic had been so swift it felt as though his senses had to pat off the ashes of a lightning strike.

"What did you do?" Snape turned around to make sure. Niles had frozen in place, wand in hand, but he also looked distant, as though he were encased in thick glass. The air was still. "What happened?"

"I stopped everything," Potter said.

"Stopped everything?"

"Yeah, I stopped everything. I want to talk to you, S – " He stopped. "Snape."

Snape snorted. Trust Potter to do something as drastic as stopping 'everything' with a mere shout. Granger, too, looked as though she were on the other side of hazy glass, but – Snape peered harder – she seemed to be moving.

"Granger is still under the birthing magic."

"I know," Potter said. His gaze, Snape noticed, was steadily on him. "Well?"

Snape met it. "Well – what?"

"The question still stands. What do you think? Do you" – Potter's voice twisted sarcastically – "happen to concur with the accusation laid on me?"

Snape was silent. He let his mind wander impulsively; the air, motionless, did not respond. So Potter had cut the two of them out from everything, Snape thought, trapped them in this world of his making. Snape looked critically at the other man's face, trying to gauge something – anything – from the impassive expression, the slightly bitter tilt of the lips.

"What you think, Snape," Potter said flatly, "not what you think I want to hear, which won't be right."

It was irritating to be addressed by his last name, Snape thought, which made him a hypocrite, but that was the least of his own accusations. "I don't think anything about the matter."

"Oh, really?" Potter was definitely smirking now, but he was smirking more out of annoyance than anything else. "Do you agree, then? Bloody say something, Snape."

"There is nothing to say. Please take us out of this state."

"I won't – not until I hear something." Potter had lifted a hand to his hair – an old gesture Snape recognized too well from too many places. Potter was getting flustered, but it did nothing to make Snape feel that he was gaining some measure of control. There was a rising, choked feeling in his throat. "We haven't had a good conversation at all since I've been back. What's going on in that head of yours, Snape?" Potter paused, lifted his eyes. "What do you feel?"

"Feel?" That word, for whatever reason, snapped something to ice in Snape's mind. "Is that what concerns you – how I _feel_? Of all the stupidity you have ever committed…" This man could destroy the world in the blink of an eye, Snape thought. His own mind could be ripped apart. "I did not sustain myself these last twenty years on what I _felt_." Snape drew back. Why was it so difficult to achieve any degree of control? "It doesn't matter," he said quietly.

He'd asked himself in the years after Jonathan had left why it had to be the way it was – that he should learn what it meant to have his life centered on a single thing by losing it. He could remember the cold and despair when he'd woken up shivering, his icy hands clamped around a broomstick handle. He'd wanted to fly across Scotland and find Jonathan. He, Severus Snape, would have done that.

"I didn't leave you to hurt you," Potter said.

Snape stifled a snort. Yes, he actually did think Harry Potter had gone through the trouble of going back in time and then freezing himself in a big ice cube to hurt him, Snape.

Potter ran his hand through his hair again, and turned aside. What little light coming through the curtain made his skin look marble. "I said I didn't change the timeline because I was afraid of what might happen if I did, that I had all this power – in me." He chuckled humorlessly. "I guess that's what I thought then…"

Snape swallowed hard. He had an urge to derail whatever Potter was going to say with a scathing remark, but something else was rooting him to the floor.

"I actually wasn't surprised when I woke from the ice." Potter made a vague gesture with his hands; it was the same nervous movement, Snape thought, from when he was a boy in Potions. "It wasn't like I had prophetic dreams or anything. But I was getting closer to the surface all the time. I woke up, and there you were, and it was like the time I'd bought for myself had run out."

Potter lifted his face. There was nothing between them now, Snape thought. No more smoke, firelight, or darkness. Through all that distance and time, it seemed as if they were seeing each other at last.

"I felt – incredibly guilty after I got out of the ice. I was still Jonathan Frost, and I was remembering how much it hurt. How much I'd hurt you." Potter drew a deep breath. "You didn't accept that I was sorry."

"I did not," Snape said, after a silence.

"No, I'm not blaming you," Potter said. "I wouldn't have forgiven myself, if I were in your position. I think. But it annoyed me, and it made me… despair." He chuckled, withdrew, and it was as though a wall of lead fell between them again. What had just happened? Snape wondered. "Hermione's birthing magic was right – and wrong, of course. If it was despair by itself, it wouldn't bloody make a difference."

"Yes," Snape said, though he was too busy trying to peer into the man in front of him. Potter? Jonathan Frost? The horrible choked feeling in his throat was only getting worse.

"I felt the same way back then, when I was Jonathan Frost, but it didn't matter because – and secretly I think I must've been glad about it – I'd not have to worry about it. At least, not for twenty years. Do you know what I mean? Do you understand?"

Snape frowned; Potter was looking at him with the same directness that had vanished a few moments ago, but he didn't know if he was any closer to seeing. "Yes," he said. Why were they still here? Snape thought. They needed to finish the birthing magic – there was no time for this.

"But now – " Potter jammed a hand back into his hair. "Now it's different, because the future, before me at least, is infinite." He paused. "After you refused to forgive me, Snape, I realized that what I felt was resignation – not anger, not determination to get you back, not any host of things I should've felt. It didn't matter to me anymore."

Potter stopped, as though to watch Snape's response, before he went on. "Also, I realized that… there was nothing holding me here anymore. When I went on the streets, there was nothing that I at all cared about. Not Quidditch, not the…" He dropped his hand. "I dunno – not the weather? And not – " He lowered his voice into a mumble. "Not sex, either."

So Potter has lost his precious libido? For a moment, Snape was distinctly aware of his own, battered body: the hair and the nose, but also the back that hurt whenever he worked longer than a few hours, the sense that he was sagging. _It didn't matter to me anymore_, Potter had said.

"The one time I felt anything was when I did those four things you told me to do, when I used my power." Potter chuckled again, and Snape was pulled out of whatever haze he was feeling to be remember to be unsettled. "The power to control someone, to have things happen as my mind wants. Isn't that rather creepy? It's like Voldemort."

"You are _not_" – the emphasis was a bit spoiled by the pause he needed to prepare himself – "Voldemort."

"Does it matter?"

Snape clenched his jaw. If he wanted to leave, if he wanted to leave the room and pace the hospital corridor until his shoes frayed, he would be unable to.

Potter chuckled again, more quietly this time. "Don't you remember that ridiculous masked ball that Voldemort threw? You snuck into it even though I told you not to."

Snape nodded. Of course he remembered.

"And do you remember…" Potter paused. "It was after that, I think. How I killed Terrance Lestrange. You were there. You came up with the idea of how to get rid of his body. It was some powder kind of thing – "

"Yes," Snape interrupted. "It was a long time ago."

"Not for me."

Snape shifted. This was getting nowhere. He'd indulged Potter enough, even though Potter now had all of the Dark Lord's power sandwiched with his own. "What do you want?"

Potter's eyes glinted. He crossed his arms over his body and leaned back. "Didn't I ask you first what you were thinking, Snape?"

"How about I clarify, Potter. What do you want to end your… stoppage, for the lack of a better word."

"I want to know what you want, Snape."

"I want nothing."

"Really?" Potter snorted. He glanced to the side, and Snape followed it to see Niles's still, glassy form. "Are you sure? You seem pretty keen on – a certain someone over there."

"I do not believe that particular comment even merits a response," Snape said coldly.

Potter snorted. "No, I didn't mean it that way. I'd do more than just say something if I thought it was true. But he's rather like you, isn't he? Or he reminds you of yourself in some way, without all the bitterness, all the experience." Another chuckle. "When you first met me, that was what drew you to me, wasn't it? The experience."

Snape said nothing. He supposed he should in order to appease Potter, but his response could not possibly matter. Potter had said so himself, and it was not untrue. In the twenty years, he – Severus Snape – had changed into someone different beyond recognition. The peculiar irony of their situation, then, was that it was not Potter's identity that had shifted: it was he, Snape, who had become different. That was why it didn't matter and why they were almost strangers to each other now. There had been no other way, Snape thought. There was no regret.

"You want to go back to how it was before, don't you?"

Snape shook his head. "No. I don't." Not to the fool's hope of waiting of only a few months ago – not even twenty years ago, when he'd been so madly intoxicated. "I only want us to leave this stasis and finish the birthing magic."

Potter nodded. His face, Snape thought, looked increasingly pale. "Do you love me, Severus?"

Snape was silent. The air and its movement were slowly coming back.

"Forgive me, if you can," Potter said. He turned –

Suddenly, the world broke free. The air was like the tongue of a hurricane; Snape scrunched into himself and gripped the bed. The curtains shivered, and Snape was aware, again, of the turmoil just outside the door. Behind him, Granger moved her head and moaned.

In front of him, Niles had finished leveling the wand in his hand. Snape watched the green light leap suddenly from its glow on the ground to coil around the wand; the air tasted bitter, dry, like human ashes. "_Avada Kedavra!" _Niles shouted.

The spell leaped through the air. Potter lowered his hand, and the light curled into a ball in his palm; then it shot out again and punctured Niles's body. The light vanished from his eyes. He fell lightly.

The air seemed suddenly to lift. Snape staggered; his ears and lungs cleared painfully. He nearly tripped on his robes as he crossed the room, but he knew that it was useless. Behind him, he could hear footsteps and voices; "Hermione!" Weasley was saying over and over, like an automaton.

Snape stopped. He'd heard the wretched wailing of a newborn. The birthing magic had been released, apparently. He scanned the room, but that, too, was useless: Potter was gone.

"It's a boy," Weasley said. "Look, Hermione, you've a son!"

Snape reached for Niles's wrist. It was still warm and the flesh was still soft, but he knew that in less than an hour, the body would become cold and stiff. He couldn't remember when Potter had disappeared – it must've been immediately after he deflected the spell. How was it, then, that he had an image in his mind of Potter's face: pale, set, and so empty it looked like a ghost?

"What's happened to him?" Moody demanded.

Snape reached up a hand and shut the boy's eyes. There was a lot of explaining that he would have to do.

* * *

_A/N2: Thanks to everyone who's read and reviewed thus far!_


	14. Meeting

_A/N: Thanks to Procyon for betaing, and my readers for waiting._

* * *

**Chapter 14: Meeting**

Snape had never been in this particular emergency room in the Ministry before. But there was no reason that he should have: Grimmauld Place was where all the emergency meetings that he'd been invited to were held, that or pureblood mansions.

Granger broke the silence. "Aaron?"

"Yes, Dr. Granger?"

"Please fetch the trolleriometer."

"Sure," Aaron Skonser said, and his eyes darted once across the room. It was only once, but if the Dark Lord had seen it, the boy would not have lasted a day, for it had been a manifestation of a split second's doubt.

"Ginny, go with him. You can take the Floo."

The Weasley girl nodded, threw a bit of powder on the flames, and disappeared with Skonser—their hands linking at the last moment before disappearing into the fire. Touching and strange, Snape thought: that was what people had done during the War, coming back in pieces, of course.

They had all come here after the birthing spell had released them. Not directly afterwards, of course; there'd been a good ten minutes of solid chaos, during which the nurses had tried to shoo everyone out, and Robert—or Roger, Granger's husband—had alternately cooed over his new son, fretted over his wife and demanded to know what was going on. The Muggle was sitting quietly at Granger's side now, looking unperturbed and watching his wife breastfeed. Snape attributed that to the Calming Spell Moody had slipped.

The Ministry emergency room had a large oval table in the middle, surrounded by chairs. The head seats were empty. Granger, propped up by her husband, sat towards the middle; Weasley and Skonser had been sitting next to them. On the other side were Moody, Jack Demme, and Lupin. Lupin, the poor, stupid werewolf, Snape thought. Lupin was attempting a look of calm. He was no doubt telling himself that James Potter's son couldn't possibly be a murderer with the Dark Lord's soul chained to his own. Snape felt his lip curl, but not very much.

There were chairs lining the back of the room. The boy's body lay on them, covered by a sheet. Snape was standing next to it now. In the hospital, a nurse had come up to him in the middle of chaos. "Is he all right?" she'd asked.

"Quite all right," Snape had said in the sort of voice that usually snapped twigs with frost. He rose and positioned himself so that he was between the woman and the boy's body. "The situation is firmly under control."

The nurse had still looked skeptical.

"Exactly what he said," Moody had barked, appearing suddenly next to them. The nurse had taken one look at his eye, and fled. "You'll want to cover the body, Snape," Moody had muttered a moment later. Snape nodded; trust Moody to be the first to smell out a corpse. There was now a hospital sheet covering the body: a white sheet, which was the color partial to Dumbledore. The Dark Lord had liked to cover his fallen generals in black.

They were waiting for the Minister of Magic, together with a baby and a dead body. It had been five minutes already. Five more, and Scrimgeour would be on par with Fudge, who believed the best way to solve a problem was to ignore it.

The fireplace flared green. Weasley and Skonser stepped through with the gold basin of the trolleriometer floating before them. "We're back," Weasley announced. "The Minister not here yet?"

"Taking his bloody time," Moody growled.

"Shall I set this up?" Skonser said.

The door opened at that point, and the Minister stepped through. He looked rather annoyed and was dressed in the sort of robes that suggested he had been in the middle of a particularly important diplomatic transaction. He was accompanied by a man much younger—an Auror, by the look of it, and familiar.

There was a chorus of "Minister's" through the room. "Cormac," Ginny Weasley added in a polite voice.

"Well, what is it, Granger? I was in the middle of a meeting with the French president. She was most displeased to hear that I had an emergency meeting to attend. Nonetheless she was willing to be humored by the vice-premier. Oh," he stopped. "Ah, congratulations on your baby, Granger. I didn't know. Boy or girl?"

"Boy," Granger said. She tilted her head. "Aaron, would you set up the trolleriometer?"

Aaron nodded and tapped the edge of the basin with his wand. It was too far away for Snape to see the needle moving. The silence felt full.

"Well?" the Minister said, eyes narrowed. "What's the matter?"

"I believe," Moody said, his eye prowling over each person at the table, "this affair is about Potter."

"Harry Potter?" Scrimgeour said. He took off his outer robe, handed it to the Auror named Cormac, and took a seat at the head of the table. "Hadn't we already handled this, with the press conference and everything?" Only now was he taking stock of everyone in the room. Snape inclined his head a fraction as the Minister's eyes settled on him.

"I'm afraid the situation has got more serious," Granger said.

"What?" Scrimgeour barked. "Has Potter gone dark?"

Snape caught a movement: the werewolf, his jaw tightening. "No," Granger said slowly. "I think he might have gone… rogue." Then she looked around, and Snape, with a gentle push of Legilimency, felt exhaustion and doubt, regret, fear. He felt a rush of vindication: she was right to feel doubt and regret and fear.

"Rogue? What's he done now?"

It was Moody who answered again. "Murder."

"Murder? Murder?" The Minister's face paled. He pulled at his collar, which Snape thought was almost funny. "Potter has done murder?"

"Maybe," Moody snapped.

"Maybe?"

"You had better ask Granger and"—his eye darted up—"Snape. They were locked in a birthing spell of sorts. There was another person there too, but unfortunately he's dead now."

"Who's dead?" Snape watched the Minister's stupid eyes land finally on the body at the back of the room. "Is that him there?"

Everyone was quiet. It was, Snape thought, like some kind of game children would play: remain silent until someone finally felt compelled to speak. "Yes," Weasley volunteered.

Scrimgeour went to the back and, after a moment's hesitation, pulled down the sheet. Niles's face was completely white now, Snape thought.

"Who is this?"

"A nobody," Snape said. The Minister looked at him rather hostilely. "A boy who was rescued from Zabini's stronghold. He had been living with me and… Potter, for some days. I am unaware of his origins and I'm afraid now we will never know."

"So a crackle addict?"

"A Muggle," Snape said coldly, and was pleased that the Minister winced. "But you can have him be a crackle addict if you like," he added almost lazily.

Scrimgeour gave him an infuriated glance. He turned back at the table, and Snape felt distantly sorry for the man. "Granger," the Minister said, "what is going on?"

"There was a birthing spell…" Granger began. She paused; Snape felt the room's attention shift to her Muggle husband. Snape felt (distantly) sorry for him too. His wife had used their firstborn for a fatal spell. But did he know? Probably not, and there were ways around minds, conjugal honesty notwithstanding. "The intent had been to use the magic to have Harry repent."

"Repent of what?"

"Harry was apparently responsible for Zabini's death and Weasley's framing."

This, Snape thought, seemed worse to Scrimgeour than the murder of an unidentified Muggle boy. He looked around the room. Weasley's face was pale but not stricken like Lupin's. She had guessed, apparently. Moody looked grim. Demme's face was pokered, as usual. "How? How do you know?"

"It was the only possibility. And the magic of the birthing spell agreed. This was the crime it chose to prosecute him with."

"We should have had him arrested," Scrimgeour muttered.

Snape snorted. Scrimgeour gave him another baleful glance, and Snape decided to speak. "Arrest him—and have him escape? You could only arrest him if he chose to be arrested. His power, I'm afraid, is quite beyond your conception."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that there are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy."

"Snape, if you don't tell me straight…"

"Potter had the ability to alter the time line." Snape paused. "Scrimgeour, purely out of curiosity, as an intellectual exercise, do you think you are capable of fully imagining death? As in, being dead, nothing."

"I don't believe anyone can," Scrimgeour said coldly.

"Can you imagine having command over that state, not just your own death, but the death and life of the fabric of magic in its entirety? No, I didn't think so. Potter has this ability. And Potter is a human—and not a very fine one, at that." Snape turned. "I suppose, Granger, that both the magnitude of his power and the nature of your betrayal crossed your mind when you were considering the birth magic?"

Granger stiffened. She met his eyes, and Snape did not need to indulge in Legilimency to read her stubborn, stupid Gryffindor gaze. "I admit the idea was a risk—one that did not carry out," Granger said. "But I was hoping that the magic, which I knew, obviously, was much less powerful than Harry's, would somehow suggest to him how to proceed in the right direction, in the same way that even a small change can sometimes, can—"

"What is the range of magical detection of the trolleriometer, Granger? And I'm sure you cast a Veneficus Duco, and I'm sure—it would be criminal to doubt you, Granger—that you are aware that it saturates even with Stonehenge."

"Severus—"

"And you chose to go ahead."

"I also didn't know how powerful the birthing magic would be," Granger said in a low voice.

"But it was worth the risk, yes, of several lives—Potter's, mine, Niles's, your own, and your son's. If you had even had a chance to succeed, I would not call you stupid. Yes, Granger, you are stupid. You are a stupid woman and mother."

Granger's eyes flashed. "This isn't helpful, Severus."

"I agree," Jack Demme cut in. "The important thing is to discuss what's to be done with Harry Potter, not throw blame around. The boy's death was a tragic accident—and Granger miscalculated the risk, but it was an accident."

"Yes," Weasley added. "Hermione did what she thought was best."

"Oh? And what would we do now that's for the best?" Snape paused. "Arrest him? Launch a war against him? The Ministry of Magic against The-Boy-Who-Lived."

"Shut up, Snape," Moody growled.

Snape turned to Granger. "Congratulations, Granger, for fully taking on Albus Dumbledore's mantle. Dumbledore let Harry starve for eleven years before letting the Dark Lord make an attempt on his life every year until he was so broken—" Snape stopped because his voice had gotten unreliable, this was a dangerous route to continue down. "But I'm sure it was for the best. He thought so, after all. And he had the Prophecy to comfort him, which you don't have, Granger, but I'm sure you can replace that with the cheerful thought that you nearly sacrificed your child to betray your friend. It will be of great comfort to you as you watch your son grow up. Bellatrix Lestrange would have been proud of you."

"Professor Snape!" Weasley said loudly.

"If I had not thought this was the only way, if I had not had reason to suspect that"—Granger's eyes glittered—"you would help him before, before doing what needed to be done. As you had done in the past."

"Yes," Snape said softly. "I suppose I had helped him above everything else. It was, after all, purely for fun that I joined the Dark Lord and defected to Dumbledore." He stopped, remembering that Lupin and Moody, among others, were here. "I suppose we are at cross purposes, Granger. My idea of what needs to be done is selfish, and, I suppose, insufficiently insidious."

"Excuse me," Skonser said, "the trolleriometer—it's moving."

Weasley, Lupin and Moody gathered around the basin. The Minister stood to one side, looking puzzled but thankfully not blustering for an explanation.

"It hadn't been registering earlier," Skonser added. "I thought something was wrong with it, but it seems that he's managed to hide himself."

"I see," Granger said.

"Where's he now?" Weasley asked.

Skonser stood up. "He's here. He's in London."

There was a brief silence. "Where in London?" Moody asked sharply.

"Very close—only several miles south."

Jack Demme asked, "Is he coming closer?"

"No. He's stopped, wherever he is."

"He wants us to know he's there," Granger said. Her voice was tired.

Scrimgeour frowned. "Why?"

Snape found himself too irritated to keep reticent. "Why else would he let the trolleriometer detect him if he could hide himself?"

"He could've sent us an owl," Weasley suggested, but her tone was really too naïve for Snape to feel the urge to snarl.

"St. Mungo's is several miles south," Granger said.

"Yes," Snape said coldly. "He wants us to visit Fred Weasley."

There was another brief silence. Then Skonser said, "He's gone." There were several echoes of "gone?" "gone?" like idiot sheep. "The needle isn't pointing anymore," Skonser said, setting down the bowl and looking between Granger and Snape.

"Well, Snape?" Moody growled. "Want to tell us how you know?"

"I don't know. But it would seem highly likely, would it not? After all, Granger's birth magic had decided to punish Potter for Fred Weasley's current condition, as well as Zabini's death." There were other factors, of course, but nothing that needed to be told. "I may be wrong, of course. I am in no way in Potter's confidence. Perhaps he is bringing yet another body to the morgue."

"Snape," Lupin said, exasperated and looking so tired the full moon might have been the previous night. "Please. This isn't helping."

Snape sneered but stayed silent.

"Well?" Scrimgeour said, trying to sound authoritative. "McLaggen? Would you please go to St. Mungo's and report back on the situation you find there?"

The Auror nodded and, after a moment's hesitation, moved to the fireplace. He tossed in the powder, called out the address, and disappeared. The Floo was still working, Snape thought. So St. Mungo's hadn't burned to the ground.

The room was silent again. Scrimgeour cleared his throat and went to take his seat at the head of the table. Snape glanced around, but there was no clock in the room. In both Grimmauld Place and whatever Manor the Dark Lord chose, there was always some irritating pendulum swinging in every room. Now he was missing it.

Granger's baby made a few gurgling noises. "Shh," Granger murmured, her attention seemingly focused on the bundle of flesh in her arms. What did she feel now? Snape found himself wondering if he regretted his words. He did not. And the reason was clear to him as well: what Granger had said was true. Everything wound back to Potter, or Frost, whatever he was called. It was as though he were a clock, or a compass, the trolleriometer—everything he did wound back to Jonathan, Harry.

The fireplace flared green again. McLaggen stepped out, together with a man whose shock of red hair was all too familiar. The Weasley girl gave a scream. "Fred!" she cried.

qp qp qp

"Ginny," Fred Weasley said and crossed the room to hug his sister.

Was this real? Of course Fred hadn't died and the doctors had been unswervingly optimistic with her—there was nothing wrong with him, he just wasn't waking up. But he was here. She had felt images, thoughts flash through her mind in the moment he appeared on the hearth: suddenly he was Dad, was Ron and George, and suddenly she remembered the somber closed look on his face before the snap of _Obliviate_ closed her mind. But he was alive.

"Ginny," Fred said again, sounding a bit choked, and she stepped back at last. She looked around—everyone was looking surprised and happy, or mostly happy. Snape, of course, still had a very blank face.

"Glad to have you back, Headmaster," the Minister said in a jovial sort of voice. He came across the room and clapped Fred's back, which Fred responded to with a slight grimace.

"What day is it?"

"The twenty seventh," Hermione answered. "You've been in a coma for a week, give or take. Congratulations on your re-awakening."

"Thank you," Fred said evenly. "And I see you've given birth. Congratulations, Hermione. And to you, Mr. Pickering."

Hermione nodded, as did her husband. Fred looked pale, Ginny thought, but not unwell. Mother would burst into tears and try to stuff Fred full of shepherd's pie, and then knit happily for a week with intermittent showers of further tears. She would want to know right away, but it would have to wait. Ginny looked around.

"So how did you manage to wake yourself up, Weasley?" Moody asked. "Or did someone give you a little help, eh?"

Fred chuckled. "I'm hungry. Starving, really. Rufus, is there any food around?"

"No, we didn't think of that, but—McLaggen, go get some food, will you? Down to the Ministry kitchens. Go on, hurry."

Cormac hurried out, looking a bit annoyed at being courier boy.

"Good to have you back, Headmaster," the Minister said again. He'd taken a seat at the head of the table and was leaning close towards Fred and ignoring everything else, which meant he was crossing into Ginny's space. She had to lean back; she caught sight of Aaron making funny moves with his eyebrows in the Minister's direction. "We're in a pickle that you're the best man for solving. The only man, really."

Ginny looked at Hermione, though she didn't know why; Hermione's face remained impassive.

"Really?" Fred said placidly. "What's the matter?"

"Potter's gone rogue," the Minister said.

"Ah, Potter's gone dark, has he?"

Ginny frowned. She'd been keeping her eyes on her brother for a while. Perhaps it was because he'd just come out of a coma, but perhaps it was because she knew, now, what he had been doing to her mind in the last few years. If there was any doubt that this was the Fred she thought he was, it was gone now. He wasn't, and the evidence had been in front of her all this time. He was here, someone different from the man she had in mind, but here, and still Fred, and Ginny wanted to grab the crook of his elbow, still muscled from Beater work, with the same splotch of freckles that George had had.

"Not necessarily dark," Hermione said. "What did Harry say to you when he woke you up?"

Fred swallowed. Ginny stared, surprised. Fred never swallowed; he'd mastered everything related to presenting a poker face, having grown up under Mother's scowl. "Interesting. So did you ask him to wake me up, then?"

"No," Hermione said. Ginny's gaze flickered. Snape had uncrossed his arms.

"Potter woke you up?" the Minister stammered. "Granger, how in Merlin's name did you know?"

How did she know? Ginny wondered, but in a split second the question answered itself. Aaron's trolleriometer had pointed out that Harry had gone to St. Mungo's; Harry had disappeared; and Fred had come back, awake. It was quite transparent.

"We suspected, from the trolleriometer, that Harry had gone to St. Mungo's. I only guessed that Harry had gone there for the purpose of waking Fred." Hermione paused. Ginny found herself looking towards Snape, though she wasn't sure why; Snape was as still as stone.

"He didn't say much," Fred said. "I lie." His eyebrows rose and one hand went halfway up to his mouth. "I lie," he repeated, this time in a whisper.

Ginny glanced at Aaron, caught sight of the Minister's bewildered look. Turning back to Aaron, she had a glimpse of Snape's eyes, glittering. Snape knew something.

"What's the matter, Weasley?" Moody said in a low voice. He had leaned forward, clearly interested. "Something got your tongue?"

Fred lowered his hand. "Potter jinxed me."

"Do you know what jinx it is?" Hermione said.

Fred shook his head. "I don't know, he didn't say any words while he did it. He just used his hands. He's got quite a command on wandless magic." His face grimaced. "I suppose he would, having all that power."

"It seems fairly harmless," Snape said suddenly, "if you continue telling the truth, Weasley."

There was a silence. The Minister cleared his throat. "It might not be a truth-telling jinx, for all we know. Really, it might be something gets you to say what the caster wants you to say. Like Confundus, or…"

"Confundus does something quite different," Snape said coolly.

"What did Harry say?" Hermione interrupted.

Fred turned until he was facing Snape. "Harry said to me, 'This isn't one of the four requests, but tell him I'm doing it anyway.'"

Ginny looked from Fred to Snape. There was something dark, incredibly dark in Snape's eyes. Ginny had never seen them look so much like obsidian.

"Is that all he said?" Hermione said.

Fred was silent. The silence stretched on. Ginny didn't move; nobody seemed to move. "He said, he said to me, 'Try to be forgiven. And try to forgive yourself, if you can.'"

Try to be forgiven. Ginny felt as though her heart had risen, suspended, and was falling in a flutter of beats. It might have meant something else, it could have been about another matter, but she was sure that Harry had meant it about this—what Fred had done to her. To their mother. Ginny felt as though she could sing. Harry had gone rogue, but he hadn't gone dark if this was what he was doing. _To be forgiven._ It was like a door opening in her head. Suddenly she could hear Harry's voice saying it, with the catch or break Harry always had threatening the end of his sentences. Suddenly she knew that it was because Harry wanted forgiveness that he said it, and that he wanted the forgiveness from Snape, from the person he loved, from himself, for himself.

Ginny looked at Snape. His eyes still glittered, incredibly dark.

The Minister shifted. "Is that supposed to mean something? And who's the person that Potter boy wanted it told to?" He shifted again, and Ginny got the distinct impression that the Minister thought it was himself.

"That's not too difficult to guess, is it?" Moody growled, and gave a rather unfriendly chuckle. "Mr. Weasley here was delivering it to the right person, that'd be my guess." His eye roved towards Snape.

Fortunately they were interrupted when the door opened, and Cormac came in. He was levitating a tray laden with pastries, tea, biscuits, muffins.

"Excellent," Fred said, sounding almost tired. "I—I lie."

There was another silence. Cormac, setting the tray onto the oval table, looked confused.

Hermione said, "What else did Harry say, Fred?"

Fred licked his lips. His eyes, Ginny noticed, were on his right hand. "He said, 'And I'll make sure you can't be a prat while you do it.'"

"What in Merlin's name did Potter mean by that?"

Fred was silent. He knew, Ginny thought, following his gaze to his own hand.

"You want your wand back, Weasley?" Moody said gruffly.

"Oh yes, we'll get it to you right away. McLaggen, why don't you fetch it?"

"All right," Cormac said, looking quite harassed.

Snape made a sound. It was a cross between a snigger and a snort, but it was quiet enough to be ignored. "Miss Weasley, you might as well lend your brother your wand, just so he can get used to the feel of it."

Ginny frowned. The moment of insight she'd gotten a moment ago was eclipsed by this new enigma. What was going on?

"Snape," Hermione said in a chiding tone. "Here." She took out her own wand and slid it across the table.

Fred pulled it towards himself and then—did nothing. His right hand was on the wand, but it lay limp, like a glove. "It's no good," Fred said. "I can't pick it up."

Ginny stared. Fred had lifted his right hand and was flexing it, opening and closing it in a tight fist, the same fist that had swung a Beater Club so often. What was going on? Fred had Hermione's wand in his left hand, held by the tip, and he was inserting it into the grip of his right hand. But the moment he let go, the wand slid through his fingers and clattered onto the table.

Fred slid the wand back. "Thank you, Hermione," he said.

The Minister frowned. "Well? What's going on? You can't hold a wand, Weasley? You've been jinxed again?"

"Apparently so, though it's probably deeper than a jinx," Fred said with a sigh. "Not until I've been forgiven, apparently. By myself, and by someone else."

By me, Ginny thought, but kept silent. The thought throbbed in her mind. She looked up, aware of a gaze on her, and met Aaron's compassionate gaze.

"Well, we'll get you fixed right away, Weasley. Granger, can you have your magicists work on the Headmaster?"

Hermione paused. "I'm not sure what I can do, Minister."

The Minister frowned. "I see."

Snape snorted. He had the look on his face that he only got after having dealt with Gryffindor first years for two hours, Ginny recognized. "Potter has the ability to change the time line. Lifting whatever spell he put on Weasley would be like trying to undo the magic under Stonehenge. Slightly difficult, I would think."

"What are we to do, then?"

Snape snorted again. He uncrossed his arms. "Nothing."

The Minister looked annoyed. "What do you mean, Snape?"

"There is nothing you—or any of us—can do."

"There has to be something," Hermione murmured, sounding more tired than Ginny could remember.

Snape sneered. "What, have another child, Granger?"

Ginny frowned. But it was Remus who spoke. "He loved you, Severus." If Hermione sounded tired, then Remus's voice was a shell of the strength it might have had. "He loved you."

"You know nothing, Lupin," Snape snapped. "And you presume too much."

"He does still," Remus said, in a voice that strangely reminded Ginny of Fred's admittance to lying.

"You idiot animal!"

"Snape," Moody growled.

"He's beyond any of us now," Snape said shortly. Ginny could see, in the shadow of the corner where he stood, his throat working, as though he did not believe what he was saying. "He's beyond us."

"Snape's right," Fred said, and for the first time since he'd stepped through the fireplace, his voice had something strong and hard in its middle. "There is nothing we can do—but there are things we must do. Potter is beyond us now. He is Dark."

Snape's lips twisted. "How typical of you, Weasley, to ascribe anything you don't understand to the Dark."

Fred regarded Snape calmly. "Potter has Voldemort's soul," he said.

Snape's face spasmed. Years ago, Ginny would have enjoyed Snape's discomfort, and even now, she had to admit, there was something fascinating in seeing the pain, the jagged edges surfacing in each tic, each darkening around his eyes, and yet it hurt to see it. "He has also his own soul," Snape managed at last, coolly.

Fred was quiet for a moment, and he had a smile on his face that Ginny understood right away. How had she not realized what it meant, those times it had been directed at her? How had she missed it? It meant that Fred knew what was going on, and she didn't. Snape didn't. Only Fred did. Only Fred, because he was managing the new Order, because she and Snape were somehow deluded. And yet, Ginny thought, she could forgive Fred of it all. She could, she could.

"We must try to stop him," Fred said slowly. "Dumbledore left us a legacy of fighting a darkness that seems unstoppable. My fellow wizards and witches, though it seems incredible, impossible—we are in the same position. We must fight an evil that is insurmountable."

"You are a fool, Weasley," Snape said in a low voice. "An unimaginable fool. Potter, or Frost, or Riddle if you like is nothing like the Dark—like Voldemort."

There was a silence that hung like a fish from a hook. "You needn't fight on the side of the Light this time, Snape," Fred said softly.

"You are a fool because you do not understand the situation," Snape went on, his voice still controlled, the quietest hiss of an adder. "You are a fool because you are living in a delusion of there being an Order left, that there is a need for continued fighting. The War is over."

"The War is never over."

"No, because living itself is a war," Snape said, snarling at last. "It is easy to die, but difficult to live with what you have left and what you have done, and what you have left to do. And you know that, Weasley, or Potter would not have made you as good as a Muggle with an instruction _to be forgiven_."

Fred's jaw tightened. "You're deceiving yourself, Snape. You are the one who needs to be forgiven, not me."

The last words echoed in Ginny's mind. She waited for it, waited for the words to come, for Fred to say in that low, defeated voice, _I lie_.

"Indeed?" Snape said, very coolly.

"I have done nothing that wasn't necessary. I will continue to do what must be done."

Ginny was almost unaware that she was standing up until she was on her feet, and Aaron, then Fred, were looking at her. "Ginny?" Aaron said, but she didn't look at him; her eyes were fixed on Fred. Almost as though pulled by magic, he looked up eventually and met her gaze.

"You have done nothing that needed forgiveness?" Ginny said slowly.

He was trying to read her, Ginny realized, to gather what she knew. Too late she wondered if he knew Legilimency, as she hadn't thought to shutter her mind completely. But let him see it. Let him. There was nothing there other than what had happened and—yes—how she would, would forgive him, if only he would let her.

"It was necessary, Ginny," Fred said at last.

"You'll never pick up your wand at this rate," Ginny said, after an equally long pause. His eyes darkened for a moment, but only for a moment. "Harry is no Darker than you are, Fred. George would not have done what you've done."

Ginny only understood the look in her brother's eyes after he'd spoken, and after she had heard the terrible trembling underneath his voice. "I don't think you can speak about George, Ginny," Fred said. "You weren't holding him as he died."

"You weren't there when Dad died, or Ron." Ginny broke the gaze at last and looked around. It'd been at the back of the mind that there were others here, but there were words that couldn't wait. The rest could go on in the Burrow; this was their family's business. "I'm going to tell Mother that you're awake. I won't tell her everything, because she's not going to get hurt from all this. But if you try anything on me, Fred, don't forget that I have an Auror's badge, and you don't."

"There's hardly anything I can do," Fred said dryly.

Ginny almost smiled. "Right, I forgot. I should thank Harry, then." She turned, and when she spoke, she was glad her voice was clear and controlled. "Harry isn't Dark. I'm sure of it. But we have to do something."

"Yes," the Minister said, looking lost but trying to hide it, "something."

Snape moved, uncrossing his arms. "Excuse me, but I both am highly uninterested in your fruitless endeavors, and have other business to attend to."

"What sort of business?" Moody growled. "Not debriefing the Potter boy, eh?"

Snape flashed a nasty sort of smile at Moody. "You are welcomed to join me if you want, Mad-Eye. There will be no Harry Potter where I am going." He tilted his head towards the back of the room, at Niles's body. "I am having the body cremated and interred. It will not take long; there'll be no service."

"Where are you putting his ashes?" Hermione asked.

"In my family plot," Snape said coldly. "Now if you'll excuse me—"

"Ah, McLaggen, you're back," the Minister said, hurriedly taking Fred's wand from him. "Could you escort Professor Snape on an errand, please?"

Cormac, looking even more harassed, nodded.

"Very well. Make yourself useful boy," Snape said, sounding irritated. "We're going to a crypt."


	15. The End of the Dementors

_A/N: Thanks to everyone who's been reading and reviewing so far!_

* * *

**Chapter 15: The End of the Dementors**

It was past sunset when he returned to Ministry meeting room, though it was impossible to tell. The enchanted lamp, plastered like a shell to the ceiling, was just as bright as when he and McLaggen had left. It was said though, Snape remembered, that the most powerful wizards and witches could tell time from the magic of the hour alone. He'd read it in a book when he was very little, and he could remember the children's illustration of a witch reaching her hands, eyes closed, to a purple night. And so he would, for years after, wonder, by habit, if he had that power, testing himself by sitting still and trying to disentangle himself from the rhythms of his own body, light's shifting.

Both Weasleys had gone, as had Moody, Lupin and the Minister. Demme was sitting in a corner, reading the _Daily Prophet_. He looked up when they entered.

"Ah, McLaggen, you're back. Good, now you can relieve me."

"Aye, sir," McLaggen said with a sigh. Snape snorted inwardly; he almost pitied the boy. The Gryffindor had been almost bearable over the last several hours.

"Cheer up, I'll be back with some biscuits and tea. We need to keep Granger company." Demme nodded towards the back of the room. A chair or two had been transformed into a bed, in which Granger now lay with a bundle that Snape supposed was her new baby. Granger's husband was sleeping in a nearby chair, his neck at an angle that promised to be particularly painful when he awoke. Snape wondered if the Muggle was under a calming spell again; he wondered, too, if Granger considered the fact that a dead body had been lying in her vicinity just a few hours ago.

Granger's head tilted. Evidently she was awake. "Severus?"

Snape felt his lips curl. He did not know why, exactly, he felt suddenly so strong an aversion to Granger. "If there's nothing pressing, which it seems that there isn't, I would like to excuse myself."

"I'm afraid that's impossible," Demme said. "Granger can explain it to you. McLaggen?"

Granger again, Snape thought, as Demme stepped into the fireplace and McLaggen took the corner seat. He was looking forward to casting aspersions on Granger's motherhood.

"Sorry, Severus," Granger said before he could say anything. Her voice was weak. "Once it emerged that you were so important to Harry, the Minister wanted you to be kept around. Fred wanted it too."

That Squib? Snape thought, not letting an opportunity to insult Gryffindors and Weasleys slip his mind. "And you?"

"I'd have let you go. It wouldn't make a difference where you are."

Snape grunted. He would have to agree with Granger on this one. She made a few adjustments to the blankets waddling her newborn, asked, "Niles is…?"

"In the Snape vault," Snape said shortly.

Granger nodded. "I've said so already, but I'm sorry. I am."

Snape nodded shortly. He was sorry too, but for different reasons—too many different reasons. It did not cease to surprise him how rapidly, irreversibly a body could be reduced to ash. The Snape vault was located in a Muggle cemetery, a fact which he was sure McLaggen had picked up on with surprise; it was that which earned the boy a few particularly acidic insults. Snape had had to reduce Niles's body to ash himself, using a spell so obscure that McLaggen, fortunately, did not recognize how Dark it was. Then Snape had realized that he didn't have an appropriate box or urn.

"We could go to Madam Persephone's," McLaggen had suggested, and so the two of them returned to the vault two hours later with a simple yew box. (The assistant, a morbidly dressed spinster, had tried to tempt Snape with a more elaborate urn with pictures of naked Greek youths. Then she'd the temerity to ask where his vault was.)

"There's not much here," Snape couldn't help saying—snarling—after he'd opened the gate and led them down. But McLaggen had only made a polite, innocuous comment in response. Then, after Snape had put the box on the long, mostly-empty shelf, he had stood back a moment in a silence that fell oppressively. He had never found out where his father's Muggle relatives—estranged, obscure—had been buried. And his mother had been cut off from the noble line of Princes. So he'd taken his out-of-the-way and horribly Muggle vault, in which only the two dim, dumb boxes of his father and mother sat. And now, a Muggle boy he had hardly known.

Granger spoke again, her voice tired and low. "They decided to sent out a general alert for Harry. Meaning to ask everyone involved in the Ministry to report any sightings they have of Harry."

Snape snorted. "Idiots. The whole world will be teeming with rumors by tomorrow morning. There will be more false sighting reports than they can incinerate with a bundle of wands."

"I know, but they couldn't do nothing."

Like you couldn't do nothing? Snape wanted to say, but bit his tongue with admirable effort. He watched Granger shift and fiddle with the blanket. In the opposite corner, McLaggen was amusing himself with a Quidditch magazine Demme had left behind.

"I don't know what to do, Severus," Granger said. Her gaze was directed downwards and her voice was low. McLaggen must have heard her regardless, but he made no movement. "It's difficult to even think."

"You're exhausted, Granger," Snape said. "I understand that giving birth is an exhausting process."

"Thank you, Severus. It's just that, everything seems completely beyond what I could think myself into." She shifted the baby in her arms. "Even the hardest Arithmancy problems—it's all logic, and once you know how to see it, things fall into place."

"Eventually, if you're approaching the problem correctly."

"Yes, of course. You can't approach a topological problem with a counting approach, or use group theory when it's clearly a number theory problem."

"No, although there is transitivity," Snape said.

"Yes, though…" She took a breath. "But with Harry, it seems like everything is different, or wrong—everything I thought. It's as though I _had_ been trying to solve a topological problem with a counting approach, or using group theory when it's very geometrical… I don't know." Granger risked an upward glance. "Everything we've done seems wrong."

"Perhaps," Snape said coolly, when he really wanted to say _yes, you have, we've done everything wrong_. Snape was feeling very little sympathy at the moment. He generally did not feel sympathy. An exact and unkind observance was what he was capable of, and which he exerted to analyze the many pathetic stories of the many pathetic "sides," etcetera. But he was feeling less sympathy—no, he was feeling vindictive, because he'd known that the sort of hope he'd had was hopeless, stupid. Now it was true. Did that make him happy, that he'd won out in this petty way? Did it gladden him? Give him pleasure?

—Yes! Snape wanted to shout. Of course he was happy, it was what he knew would happen all along. Now it'd come true, so he should go home with some champagne and a pipe of pot and make merry with the dark.

But here, in the half-dark of the room and the pause in their conversation, he felt the lie declare itself. Snape was capable of exerting that exactitude of observance on himself. Snape was a liar, and he knew it. It'd been useful in dealing with Voldemort. The essence of a master liar was lying to oneself just enough to believe it halfway; so for a total of ten years, Snape had half-believed himself to be a Death Eater. For more than twice has long, he had half-believed that Jonathan Frost, his love, the love of his life, would come back to him, come back and— well, what? what? That was the most damning lie, the most seductive one: that everything would be Good and Well. It was a notion so seductive that it'd disarmed his own exactitude. Had he considered it for even a split-second, it would have been clear to him how transparent and foolish a dream it was. Could there a future both Good and Well come out of a man who had half of Voldemort's soul—a man he knew next to nothing about—and a scrawny, scarred, unfriendly, unattractive man?

It'd be pretty to think about. Was that why it had seemed as though a pall had fallen over, between them in the time after the ice had melted?—the secret knowledge that it would be, was all a fool's dream? Snape knew it to be so. He'd always seen his intellect as his one redemptive trait (physically he was bony and he constantly felt keenly misshapen; he was antisocial; he was poor), specifically the ability to turn things over and over until only what was pure, pure remained, like dirt rubbed off a diamond. And so this was another diamond, bitter and pure. The longer he lived, the more people he'd seen die or go mad (like Albus), it seemed, the more diamonds he collected. Diamonds. Snape snorted inwardly; nobody ever found any real use in absolute truth.

Granger was sighing. "We did it wrong from the beginning. We should've reached out to him when he came out of the ice…"

"Yes, coddled him," Snape interrupted. Stupid woman, he thought. Granger's virtues were constantly being subsumed by her Gryffindor nature. "That would've made all the difference, certainly."

Granger looked at him, as though distressed. "But something must've been possible."

"No."

"But—you can't believe that, Severus. Even if you do, it's wrong."

"Spare me your Gryffindor idealism," Snape said with easy ice.

"It's not idealism," Granger said. "Or call it idealism, if you like. But something had to have been possible, and it's still not impossible. I know it."

Snape didn't bother hiding a snort. "You _know_ it? May I mention two words, Granger: 'fool's hope?' Which, really, is interchangeable with 'Gryffindor idiocy'…"

"You've mentioned 'fool's hope.' In reply, Severus, may I mention two words of my own?"

"Go on."

"'Harry Potter.'"

"Very clever, Granger," Snape said between his teeth, "but I'm afraid those two words rather prove _my_ point."

"You're wrong, Severus. You're forgetting that Harry Potter wasn't supposed to succeed in ending the War. He had all the odds stacked against him, even with the Prophecy. Don't you remember how it was like at the end of the War? How we had no hope at all—or, if we had any hope, the phrase 'fool's hope' wouldn't even have begun to describe it?"

"I don't need you throwing your words back at me, Granger."

"I'm not. I'm just reminding you of a time when it seemed things were really hopeless, when, in retrospect, they actually weren't. Don't you remember how even Dumbledore didn't think the plan would work, how Harry was the only one who believed it—"

The fireplace flared green. The Weasley girl stepped out. "Dementors!" she hissed. "They're entering London."

Snape had his wand out, though, grimly, he thought to himself that it wouldn't be of much use. His Patronus was queasy at best.

"What?" Granger said. "How many—where?"

"I didn't count, nobody has," Weasley said. "But there are hundreds. I came here after a pack of them went through St. Ottery, but it's happening everywhere."

"But St. Ottery is to the south," Granger said. "They must've come down over water. How many fatalities?"

"I don't know, no one knows."

"But have you seen—any?"

"No," Weasley said.

Granger's brows were drawn, but Snape could see that her mind was working, working towards the same corridors his mind had already arrived at. Of course, Granger didn't have the benefit of having seen Voldemort negotiate with the dementors. The memory of it made Snape's throat turn dry. How many had there been—a thousand? thousands upon thousands? En masse, they'd converged, overlapped, blended until they were like countless shards of ragged cloth, through which the outline of a shriveled hand, a skull-like head could be made out.

"The wards should have kept them out," Granger said quietly.

"Unless they're coming _bona fidei_," Snape said. "The wards can't hold them then. They want to negotiate. I wouldn't be surprised if there aren't any casualties at all—yet."

Granger eased herself upright. The strain was clear on her face. The Weasley girl exclaimed, but Granger shook her head.

"Surely you're not planning on being present," Snape said coolly. "Or of risking your child's life—again." Twice in twenty-four hours—not even Bellatrix Lestrange would've been so creative, Snape thought.

Granger shook her head. "I have to go. Ginny, could you levitate me?"

"Don't be an idiot, Granger!" Snape hissed, suddenly angry. "Spare me your Gryffindor antics. Your magic is at its weakest now—doubly so, from the birthing, and from the birthing magic that you so prudently summoned. Stay here with your Muggle husband and flee if you must."

"I have to be there, Severus," Granger murmured. "Dementors are in general most receptive to the last human ambassador. It's difficult to introduce a new one."

It took Snape only a moment to comprehend.

"The bed, Ginny," Granger said, "it's much easier to levitate the bed. And Cormac, could you do me a favor? Take my husband back to our flat. It's 48 Pickering Street. It's due west, he should be safe there. And feel free to cast another calming hex if you need to. Ginny?"

"_Wingardium leviosa_," Snape intoned, before the Weasley girl could react. "You go on ahead, Weasley—my Patronus is shoddy."

"But Hermione…" the Weasley girl was balking, but Snape paid her no heed. He maneuvered the bed out of the room and into the corridor. It was dark. Snape could feel them, although much less sharply than if they'd come to feed.

"Hermione, why don't you send little Harry back too?" the Weasley girl hissed. Their voices had all dropped, though it would have made no difference if they were screaming or whispering. "I'll take him and come back."

"Dementors don't Kiss infants," Snape said shortly. "They haven't lasting memories or fully-developed souls yet."

"And he'll want milk," Granger said, her eyes lowered. She looked young, Snape thought, almost surprised. Maybe it was the cold that made him think it, but he felt as though he were levitating something that glowed. For all her responsibilities—and mistakes—Granger was still a young mother.

They rounded a corner, and Snape had to jolt the bed to the side of the hallway; a crowd of terrified secretaries were trying to squeeze past. "The dementors!" one of them squealed and nearly got stuck between the bed and the wall.

"Weasley, kindly clear the path next time," Snape barked.

But there was no need. In another moment, they had reached the doorway to the antechamber at the entrance of the Ministry. If the dementors were not there, then they were just beyond; Snape could feel the cold to his marrow. Granger shifted the wrappings around her bundle, which was, to Snape's relief, still calmly sleeping. Perhaps another Calming Hex?

"Open the door, Ginny," Granger said.

The Weasley girl nodded. "All right." She pulled the doors open, and Snape clenched his teeth at the cold that tore through. He thought… he remembered something from more than twenty years ago: the cold, and a broomstick in his hands. Hogwarts. It was clear now. The drowsiness, the terrible fear of an end, that Jonathan Frost would leave him—go somewhere north, into the cold… Waking, alone. Loneliness. Loss.

The baby opened its mouth and gave a thin, scrawny cry. "Shh," Granger murmured; Snape could hear the tremor in her voice.

They went through. The room was packed mostly with Aurors. The Weasley girl went to the side; Snape spied a few redheads, and was displeased to see Fred Weasley clumped next to Alastor Moody. He was pleased, though, to note that both of them looked pale. There was a wind in the room, and at the other end, the ghostly movements of Patronuses. Beyond that, the outer door was open.

"Let's go," Granger said.

Snape nodded. They were halfway through before they were halted by an Auror Snape didn't recognize; but Weasley had returned by then. Soon they were in the cloud of Patronuses. The crowd of dementors began clarifying itself. Framed by the doorway, Snape could see that they were arranged roughly in a triangle, a particularly tall dementor at their head. Flanking them was air that was silver, whether from the mist of death or magic, Snape didn't know.

"Ginny, you stay back," Granger said, though there was little need for the command, Snape thought; the Weasley girl had fallen even with Snape, her wand hand was trembling from effort. Her horse Patronus was lost somewhere in the mist outside.

"Hermione, are you sure?" the Weasley girl said, voice barely audible.

Granger nodded. "If you could keep your Patronus next to us, though… Severus?"

Snape led them through. The head dementor stepped forward in a matching movement. The air around was too opaque to make out the buildings, and the air above clouded; anyway, the dementors were taking up most of the space of what normally was the bustling London square. Snape swallowed. The wand in his hand was—felt like the old Comet in his memory, the stony shed of the broom-shack. He wished Granger would hurry with her negotiations.

Presently, the head dementor stepped back. Granger turned around. "Severus—Severus," she said, and both her voice and face were garbled by the wind, "put me here—go!"

Snape frowned. He observed the head dementor approach as though in response, its hands, shielded by the silver of the Patronuses, raising, raised to the edge of the hood of its cloak. The ice stabbed his heart.

"Granger, you fool!" Snape barked. He ended the levitation. It was clear to him. His hands broke into sweat, but his voice didn't waver. "I'm here," he spat, staring into the darkness. "What do you want?"

The dementor was reaching into its sleeve now. Snape watched it, waiting, tense, uncertain. The gray, bony hand came out with—a piece of Muggle paper? That's what it was, clearly, folded and remarkably stiff in the shard-like air. Now the dementor was holding it straight out, as though patiently waiting for Snape to take it.

Snape took it.

qp qp qp

Ginny was having difficulty concentrating on anything other than the mantra she was repeating in her head: _stay alive, stay alive_. The cold was like something trying to unravel her life.

But she kept Ginger (what she named her Patronus—she'd never told anyone where the form came from, which was a picture book her dad had read her when she was seven) close, and waited for Hermione to finish. It seemed to go on forever.

Then the dementor who'd come forward stepped back. Hermione was saying something now, but it was hard for Ginny to make it out… Was that "go!" that she was mouthing, or shouting? The cold snapped at her. Then the dementor was reaching up—

Snape stepped forward. "Granger, you fool!" he snarled, quite clearly. Then, to the mass in front of him, "I'm here. What do you want?"

The head dementor had moved its hands away from its hood, and was reaching into sleeves, taking out a… a square? paper? Ginny tried to make it out more clearly, but it was impossible. At any rate the dementor was holding it straight out, and Snape—in an abrupt movement—took it—

Everything was still for a moment. Then, like the indrawn of breath, the world became light, pure light.

_Light_.

That was all Ginny could think of; she didn't know her eyes could sustain such intense brightness. When the pain had ebbed enough that she could force herself, wincing, to squint at what was before her, she saw shapes. Rising shapes—stretching, elongating, pulled upwards into the sky and gaining bodies, losing bodies, suffusing themselves with the quality of air…

When Ginny lowered her gaze from where they were drawn, almost irresistibly, to upper altitudes, she could see piles and piles of dark rags on the ground. She realized, then, what the light was. It was the dementors, rising and transforming. And, Ginny realized, the cold had stopped. Instead, it was almost warm. There was the perfect trembling of air that came blushing with spring or fall in morning, evening…

People were shouting behind her. Some were, kind of redundantly, just yelling, "The dementors! The dementors!" The shapes up in the air were dissipating, curling on themselves like smoke and petering out. Like the long, reluctant exhalation of breath, the light near the ground was dimming, pulsing gently and finally expiring.

The dementors had gone.

"Hermione?" Ginny shouted, because Hermione had slumped back on the bed, her body curled over little Harry.

"I'm all right," Hermione called back.

Ginny looked around. Where the dementors had been, there were only many ragged bundles of cloth, some of which were nosed or picked at by the more curious Patronuses still remaining. "What just happened?"

"I don't know," Hermione said.

The antechamber was gradually shedding its stunned silence, becoming louder as the shock wore off. Ginny could hear snatches of phrases behind her, most of them iterations of "What happened?" or curses invoking Merlin. Added to that was the wail of Hermione's baby, which was lifting up like balloons.

"Snape!" Mad-Eye barked out. "Where are you going? Snape?"

Snape, Ginny saw, was hurrying through the pile of rags, looking as though he hadn't heard Mad-Eye.

"Let him go," Hermione called, but Ginny doubted Mad-Eye heard her voice over the tumult. Ginny stepped aside, almost instinctively—should she be trying to stop Snape? she wondered—but a hot string of magic shot by her and hit Snape's back. He stopped, jerked like a puppet whose strings were pulled taut.

"Where are you going, Snape?" Mad-Eye shouted.

Everyone quieted. Ginny looked uncomfortably from Snape's back to the crowd in the antechamber. She felt a bit caught in the middle, if only by proxy of location. A few of the older Aurors had dark looks on their faces, and it struck Ginny, for the first time in a long while, that Snape had been a Death Eater.

"Let me go, Alastor."

"What?" Mad-Eye barked and yanked his wand.

Snape jerked. He did an one hundred-eighty degree turn. His face, when Ginny saw it, looked like a rubbery mask. Something terrible was wrong about it, or maybe something terrible had happened.

Snape spoke again. It was almost difficult to hear what he was saying. "Let me go, Alastor."

"Where are you going?"

"It doesn't matter."

Mad-Eye snorted. "What? Too shy to tell us, Snape? What's that you got in your hand? Did the dementors give it to you?"

"The dementors are gone," Snape said flatly, and a sharp edge emerged. "They've been dissolved, destroyed, released, forgiven, however you'd like to view it. The dementors are of no concern anymore. Now let me go."

Mad-Eye was silent for a moment. Then Fred (Ginny bit her jaw for a moment) lifted his voice. "Are you going to see Potter?"

Snape said nothing. He was, Ginny thought instinctively. Or—perhaps not, she told herself. But the lessons from her Auror training leaped into her mind; every instinct that her instructors had ingrained in her told her that Snape's silence was concession. But Snape should be an old hand at this interrogation. Was he under some kind of spell?

"What does Potter want?" a voice stammered. This—to Ginny's surprise, for she would have thought he had fled—was the Minister.

Fred again: "Snape, what's in that paper you've got?"

Snape stirred. "It doesn't matter. Potter is no longer a threat."

This was greeted by some consternation. Ginny looked between Snape, who was inscrutable, and the crowd, which was ignoring him in their mutterings. Hermione, Ginny noted, was frowning. Ginny found herself surprised, but not shocked. Harry wasn't Dark, she'd felt.

"How do you know that?" Mad-Eye shouted.

It was another moment before Snape replied, voice still strangely small. "It's written here. And the proof is that the dementors are gone." He lapsed into another silence. "He's powerless now. Potter is powerless now. He traded it to the dementors."

More murmuring. Ginny frowned. All of his power? Was Harry now a—? Her mind balked.

"Somehow, that seems a little far-fetched, Snape." Fred again, Ginny thought with more clenching of her teeth. The murmuring, though, did not die down; it rose around Fred's voice, and Ginny realized, after her anger had ebbed slightly, that there were many in the crowd who must have believed, or half-believed, as she did: Harry wasn't Dark.

"I do apologize, Headmaster"—Snape hissed, suddenly not at all quiet but almost shaking—"but perhaps you would like to explain how to dementors all disappeared?"

Fred laughed carelessly. "I'm sure there are other ways of explaining it, that don't involve Harry Potter."

"Why, what a convincing explanation, Headmaster!" Snape exclaimed, or went near to it as possible without even dropping an iota of his venom. Ginny realized suddenly that she'd never seen him so angry, or upset, or haggardly white. He _was_ shaking. "I'm sure the _Daily Prophet_ will love whatever words of wisdom you decide to feed them. Now, Alastor, would you be so kind—"

"Snape," Mad-Eye interrupted, "what does it say on that paper you're holding?"

"What I just told you," Snape hissed. "He's—powerless now, which is why the dementors are destroyed."

"Is that all?" Mad-Eye growled.

"The rest," Snape snarled, "is _personal_."

Ginny felt her neck tingle in the ensuing silence. A pulse of silence, and then another. Ginny started glancing around; everyone else, she noticed in a burst of self-consciousness, was doing the same. She looked back at Snape. He was staring at no one.

"Severus…" Hermione said, sounding tired, strained, but also gentle. She stopped.

"Snape," Mad-Eye said, voice gruff, "let me read it."

Another pulse of silence. Then Snape inclined his head. With a gust of wind, the letter fluttered from his sleeve and flew like a bird into Mad-Eye's hand. His magical eye was fixed on Snape, but the real one went down the page fast—widened, narrowed, and stopped in a critical stillness.

"I see," Mad-Eye growled.

"Alastor," Fred said, "I would think a letter written by Potter himself would be hardly trustworthy. And I think the Minister would agree with me on that."

"What? Oh, yes," the Minister said. "I think so, yes."

A silence, and then: "If you don't mind, Alastor?" said Fred, gesturing at the letter.

There was a flash, a burst of air in what felt like an explosion. Fred stumbled back. The letter, turned red suddenly, shot out of Mad-Eye's hand and into Snape's. Ginny stared; was that wandless magic?

"No," Snape hissed, sounding strangely unintelligible. "You don't get to read it, Weasley," he spat. Ginny stared, shocked. Snape was crying. Snape really was crying—that was why his face was so twisted, a terrible nakedness she'd never seen before. But then it was controlled again, smoothed. The effect was like watching the contractions of a beast without air. "He's Kissed! You'll be happy now, I'm sure."

_Kissed?_ Ginny thought in shock. Snape straightened in the ensuing silence. He looked down, and turned around. The empty street ran down in front of him. "_Accio_ broomstick!" he snapped, pointing his wand at Quality Quidditch Supplies. A broom—a Firebolt, Ginny recognized—sailed out, accompanied by the small sound of a window breaking in the midst of deafening silence. Snape mounted the broom and rose into the air. Within seconds he was gone.


	16. Not Quite Gone

**Chapter 16: Not Quite Gone**

* * *

Ginny pulled the hood of her cloak closer about her face so as to avoid the spray; some of it got into her face nontheless and she leaned over the boat railing, spitting into the flinty sea; another wave crashed up. She held on tight. Next to her, Aaron leaned over and retched.

"We're almost there," Ginny called.

It was six hours after the dementors had vanished in front of the Ministry of Magic. One hours after that, she and a small squadron of Aurors had gotten to the tip of Scotland. North Rona was where the dementors had been kept. Two hours later, they'd had to regroup: there were magic disturbances in the air there that broke their command on their brooms. McLaggen had been tossed into the water, and now crouched, shivering, in the corner of the boat they'd gotten from a Muggle seacaptain. The Muggle was with them and clearly unhappy with their explanations. They'd have to Obliviate him later.

The Muggle seacaptain had a beard the color of the sea and a grim, hard smile. "You never told me why you're so keen on this island, miss."

"We're a geological survey team," Ginny repeated. It had been Hermione's suggestion.

"Yar? What are you looking for?"

"Rocks," Ginny said, after a moment.

"Not bodies, then?" The Muggle's voice was quite grim. He was pointing at the water.

For a moment, Ginny's heart dropped. Harry, she thought. Her eyes had trouble finding what the Muggle saw. The waves, choppy and tipped treacherously with icy whites, looked like arms and hands and faces. "Where?" she was about to say, but she saw it then. She bit her lip.

"That's no body," Aaron said with difficulty.

"No," Ginny agreed.

"No, I guess not," the Muggle said, sounding reluctant that his discovery had proven to be rather less morbid. "What is it then? Some kind of black cloak? A floating black cloak that doesn't sink when it's sogged with water?"

"It does look like a black cloak," Ginny said.

There were more cloaks in the water, black, bobbing, Ginny thought, rather like drowned bodies. Or they could be seals in the water, or clusters of artful seaweed. The Muggle spat over the ship. "They'll clog the blade," he said, and slowed the engine.

North Rona approached in two sloping hills. Its southwest face was gentler, and they took to it. "Haven't got all day," the Muggle said.

"We understand," Ginny said shortly. The Muggle was quite surly, given how much they were paying him. Aaron had somehow wrangled out some Muggle currency with breathtaking speed. But he knew how those Muggle things worked.

He went ahead with Ginny, seeming much happier to be on solid land. There were a few black cloaks lying in the lee of a boulder. Ginny turned; the Muggle was out of hearing, though he was still quite visible, a hunched and suspicious shape. "Not all the dementors went to London, did they?" Ginny said.

"I guess not," Aaron said. "There must've been a lot that stayed here."

A pile of rocks that looked suspiciously like a house neared them. It was a house – built from flat, ill-fitting stones. Ginny stopped. "This isn't Harry's doing, is it? Or the dementors?"

Aaron shook his head. "There've been Muggles living here for centuries, but it's been abandoned for a good while now, of course. Or I guess they wouldn't have chosen it for the dementors." He picked his way up, avoiding a clog of black cloaks tattering in the wind. "This looks like the old chapel that was built – mm, in the seventh or eighth century, I believe. St. Ronan's Chapel."

"D'you think he might be in there?" Ginny said.

"Maybe," Aaron said.

"Shall we look?"

Aaron nodded reluctantly. Ginny went ahead, peering into the uneven doorway formed by the slab-like stones. Nothing was inside.

They climbed a hill. As though disturbed by their presences, the wind caught or loosened a few cloaks from around a rock or knoll; and it tumbled towards them, sometimes – in fleeting moments – caught with its arms outstretched, impotent but rather terrible. Ginny stepped well away from their path and, when they settled on the ground, she threw a large rock onto one.

"Should we go there?" Aaron said. "But, to be honest, I don't see anything that might look like Harry Potter, live or dead."

Then he might be in the ocean, Ginny thought. One of those bobbing dementor-cloaks could be Harry. Yet this island was larger than it looked from afar, and he could be huddled behind some boulder. She didn't know what to hope for. Earlier they'd all been stupid with relief. It was unbelievable. The dementors disappeared, destroyed, all. It was almost, Ginny thought, as when they'd defeated You-Know-Who. She still felt some of that lightness, despite the wind tearing at her face, despite the oily closeness and what they were expecting to find.

"Where's Professor Snape?" Aaron said. "He was pretty well ahead of us."

"He can't have made it if he stayed on broom," Ginny said. "The magic would've knocked him off. I hope it didn't. I hope he felt it, and turned back."

"Yeah, me too," Aaron said, but Ginny knew what they were both thinking, that it was unlikely, that someone maddened as Snape had been couldn't have turned back so easily. "It would be easier if we could do homing spells," Aaron added.

"Or a heat tracking spell."

"Or just a heat spell," Aaron said. He'd wrapped the sleeves of his sweatshirt about his hands, which were gripping a pair of binoculars. Ginny watched him watching the landscape. "Nothing," Aaron said, lowering his hands. "What?"

Ginny shook her head. "Nothing," she said, but touched his shoulder as they walked.

Aaron stopped suddenly. "I see something," he said, staring through the binoculars. "There, over there – on that hill. Don't you see her? It's – " Aaron stopped.

"Who? What?"

Ginny waited anxiously. She could see no one. Aaron lowered the binoculars and handed them to her, looking troubled, uncertain. "Over – over there. On that hill."

"Where?" Ginny couldn't see anything.

"You don't see her?"

"Who?" Ginny lowered the binoculars and looked again. Hill, sea, sky. There was nothing else there.

* * *

No amount of warming spells seemed to help. Snape sat shivering in front of his fireplace. How utterly foolish and embarrassing to need to be fished out of the water by Lupin, shivering and half-dead. How embarrassing, how humiliating to have flown off like that. A lunatic. But Jonathan –

Snape looked up. "What are you doing, Lupin?" he barked.

"Looking out the window," Lupin said mildly, as though he were doing something perfectly innocent. "You have a nice view here, Severus."

"Get your filthy hide away from the window!" Snape snarled. "And close – close the curtains." His voice came dangerously close to breaking. So he looked back into the miserable fire, whose heat felt harsh and hostile on his skin. His face, his hands.

Lupin sat on the couch. (Niles, Snape remembered, had lain there, petulant and tied-up and lifelike.) "I understand, Severus."

"No you don't," Snape hissed. "Nobody does." He stared back into the fire until his eyes hurt. Even before, they had been hurting. It would be best if he could somehow resign from being a conscious, feeling creature – some good Draught of Living Death would do it. Something stronger maybe. Anything.

"I do."

"Nobody asked you!" Snape snarled.

Lupin seemed intent on talking. Snape condescended to give him a baleful glare, which was more than the werewolf deserved – coming in, not leaving, still not leaving, disturbing him what he most wanted was to be alone in his emptiness.

Lupin went on, "It hurts me – maybe not as much as you, Severus, I can't say that. But it hurts me almost as much as it hurts you to have lost Harry."

It would hurt Lupin, Snape thought. Potter was Lupin's last link. Harry. Jonathan. Harry. Jonathan. The names linked up like ghosts, dead things, names that yesterday he didn't know had so much power cemented beneath his mind. The mind of a pitiful, stupid, broken man.

"I remember when I lost James and Lily and Sirius all in one night. We were supposed to be happy. But I was the unhappiest man on earth that night. Except, maybe, You-Know-Who." Lupin chuckled. "But I was glad – even though it broke me, every time I thought of him – glad that Sirius was still alive, at least. Even after what he did to Lily and James and Harry, even though I should have wanted his death, even though I did want his death, I was still glad he was only sent to Azkaban – and not – " Lupin stopped.

Snape made no response.

"And the day that Sirius died, it was as though everything came back. I had to relive it again and again." Lupin was still talking. "And it hurt me – forgive me for saying this, Severus – it hurt me that Harry never quite turned to me as he did to Sirius. And after, it was too late. I always hoped that, when he grew up, we would become closer. But it never happened. And even when he – "

Snape whirled around; it was as though something tethering him to the fire had snapped. "Enough! Enough!" he screamed. "Don't you understand? Don't you understand?" He was raving, now – he could feel himself raving. "Alone!" he shrieked. "I need to be alone! Just today," he hissed, clamping on himself like water flung onto fire, "and then I'll make it through. Go! Slink off to your flea-bitten hovel, Lupin. Nip at your own wounds. Leave me alone."

He put his hand on his face to steady himself, steady the part of him that was bristling and hysterical, steady the part of him that had no floor anymore. Lupin still wouldn't leave. "I won't be responsible for my actions, Lupin," Snape said in a low voice.

"Would it help if I went into the kitchen?"

"No – you need to come here, to the fireplace, so that I can Floo out your miserable hide," Snape snarled.

"Severus – "

"Go. The kitchen, the hall, I don't care." He took a deep, shuddering breath. "Please."

Lupin looked quite uncertain for a moment. Snape added, without looking up, "I won't kill myself, Lupin. If that is what's going through your sorry excuse for a brain."

"I'll be in the kitchen," Lupin said.

Lupin went the wrong way. Snape watched the hallway and saw Lupin cross it a moment later, moving quietly as though in some misguided attempt to be discreet. Snape flicked his wand and the door closed.

An hour later, he was curled on the couch, a bottle of Milchtod in his hand. What he would've liked was strong Firewhisky and a few lines of crackle. Firewhisky and crackle. Lupin being in the kitchen was a good thing; Snape didn't think he would have been able to let himself into the liquor cabinet if the werewolf were here.

The walls were already a tinge unsteady. Snape had drunk too fast. The sick feeling in the pit of his heretofore empty stomach was accompanied by the illusion that the couch was moving, that he was in the air again, and chasing something. Chasing something that wasn't his. Snape closed his eyes at the sudden stab – his mind was functioning too much still, too much.

Then the fireplace flared green. Snape squinted at it, for a moment unsure. Then he sat up hurriedly and dropped the Milchtod on the ground beside the couch. "Weasley," he managed.

Ginny Weasley stepped out. "Professor Snape," she greeted him.

Snape nodded, unnecessarily. It felt oddly surreal – it was as though he were still a professor in Hogwarts. "Weasley," he repeated.

"Where's Remus?"

"Are you fetching him? Good. He's in the kitchen. I'll show you. Come this way," he said as carefully as possible. He did not think he had had enough for his speech to slur noticeably, or too noticeably. Weasley's face was turned in his direction, but the little light from the grate was not enough for him to see her expression.

"Lupin. What's the matter with you?" Snape said, banging open the door.

The werewolf was standing straight, his hands clutching the back of his chair. His eyes were fixed on something in front of him, except there was nothing there, nothing but the kitchen counter, the coffee mug, its rings staining the countertop.

"Ginny, Severus," Lupin said, turning at last. "I didn't hear you come in."

"What's the matter with you, werewolf? You look as though you'd seen a ghost."

"I thought I had. But I can't have." Lupin turned and smiled with effort. "Ginny. Hermione told me that you had gone to North Rona?"

"No one told _me_," Snape said angrily. "Was there anything there, Weasley? I mean, of interest?"

Weasley had the nerve to look both amused and slightly pitying. "No, we didn't see anything. There were a lot of dementor cloaks in the water and on the island, but that's been reported all over Britain, apparently. As well as sightings of doppelgangers."

"Doppelgangers?" Lupin said with a start.

"There've been quite a few reports of Harry Potter sightings. But most of it's been of other people. A few Dumbledores, some even say they saw You-Know-Who."

Snape shuddered. He would not want to see any of those as doppelgangers. "Does Granger have an explanation? That girl always has an explanation." He shut his mouth; he wondered if the werewolf could smell the Milchtod.

"Well, Severus, you're getting your wish. I'm going," Lupin said.

"Excellent," Snape said darkly.

"But I'm afraid Ginny will be staying."

The Weasley girl at least looked a bit guilty, although she still had that stupid pitying look about her. Gryffindors and their pity! But he couldn't put spells on his students. Although Ginny Weasley was no longer his student, he remembered. "Very well, if you must! But stay in the kitchen."

"Will you be all right?"

"After he goes," Snape snarled, pointing at Lupin.

The werewolf went.

"So you saw nothing on North Rona – nothing?" Snape said immediately.

"Nothing. There were a lot of cloaks, but that was all. There were some buildings on the island, but Aaron told me that they had been built by Muggles. We had the Muggle seacaptain take us a few times around the island, in case there was something there to see. But we saw only more dementor cloaks, which don't sink the water.

"Aaron thought he saw someone else on the island, in fact. But it was a doppelganger."

"What did he see?" Snape asked.

"He thought he saw his mother. She'd passed away during the war," Ginny said.

"I see," Snape said. "You couldn't cast homing spells, or the Body-Searcher? I suppose the island had too much wild magic, but in the water around the island? If he had fallen in on the windward side, the body would wash against the shore. But if he'd fallen leeward, the current would've taken him out of the area of wild magic by now."

"I didn't think of that," Ginny said.

"Typical."

"But I think Hermione is negotiating with the Danish merfolk."

Snape closed his eyes. He was imagining the dead body that would be recovered, if it would ever be recovered. More than one body had been dumped in the Thames by the Dark Lord. More than one had emerged bloated and fish-bitten, all the flesh chewed off the face, the hands, the delicate skin of the neck. That was what was left in life. And there were some that were never discovered, though Snape knew them to be lying there like trash for the riverbed.

"I'll be in the kitchen if you need me," the Weasley girl said.

Snape was annoyed. Granger had evidently decided to institue a suicide watch on him. It was altogether ridiculous; if he wanted to kill himself, there was no way they could stop him. His flat no longer had as many deadly traps as there had been during the war, and just after – when he prepared to face death with every long shadow – but there was the Intestine-Shattering Hex hidden in that clock, for example. And the couch was not really a couch.

But Weasley leaving was a good thing. He picked up the Milchtod and drank long. He was used to death and the death of colleagues, close ones. Potter was another such image in his mind. It would devastate him, but he would live on, like a rat. A cockroach.

And yet…

Never had he been more convinced that he was mistaken about something, although what it was, his mind was too cloudy or waylaid by the grief to decide. Perhaps what his life had been up to now. Perhaps what his life would be after this, if life could go on after this.

Snape took a shuddering breath. Even through the worst abasement before the Dark Lord, even through the most maddening manipulations of Dumbledore, he'd somehow stayed intact – as though something stronger than either of them remained locked, pearl-like, in his soul. His mind, soul, whatever it was. In two days it had shattered. It had gone.

What was he now, this knitted stick of bone, flesh and magic.

He wasn't aware of the time passing. The fireplace flared green again. He sat up quickly, knocking over the now-empty Milchtod. "Weasley," he said, feeling that his mouth tasted like the carpet. He'd fallen asleep.

"Professor," Weasley said in a voice suggesting that seeing her old professors passed out on the couch were rather normal. "Hallo, Hermione."

"Granger," Snape managed.

Granger stepped out carefully. She had her baby bundled up, and Snape felt his ire return at the sight of it. He hated babies. They wailed like banshees and slobbered like mandrakes. They continued life. "You're next in the suicide watch?"

"We're concerned for you," Granger said.

Snape snorted. "Did you find anything?"

Granger sighed, paused. He felt his insides clench. "No. But there are doppelgangers about, all over Britain. I don't think this has been ever recorded. Although it does bear similarities to the standing stone myths."

"Did you cast nets across North Rona's leeward side?"

"I'll be in the Burrow," Weasley called, stepping into the Floo.

"No, but we asked the Danish ministry to get their mermaids to look. I think they'll do better than we can right now, honestly. The magic disturbances have a greater range than we thought at first."

Snape didn't answer. He did not think much of mer-creatures. He sighed; a headache was beginning, and his mouth was dry, in addition to carpeted. "Go to the kitchen, Granger. As much as you think otherwise, you are not welcome in my living room."

"Will you be all right, Severus?"

He did not wish to deal with her Gryffindor tendencies. "Tibby!" Snape shouted. The house-elf appeared nervously. "A glass of water. And something for dinner. And something for you, Granger?"

"No, I've eaten. Thank you."

Tibby bowed and disappeared.

"I cannot remove you and your Gryffindor accomplices from my flat, it seems. But I think it is not unreasonable that you respect my wishes and remove yourself from my immediate vicinity, at least," Snape said tiredly.

"As you wish," Granger said. She remained where she was. Typical, Snape thought. He wondered if he had any brandy in the kitchen, now that the Milchtod was gone. "Harry was all our friend, too."

"What do you mean by that?"

"That he was all our friend… We miss him too."

"So I shouldn't cry over him, is that right? Snape – that old, greasy – " Snape felt his jaw freeze with the insane hatred he felt. Only the bundle in Granger's arms was in the way, it seemed, between him and her.

Granger's voice was quiet. "That's not what I mean, Severus."

Snape swallowed. It was difficult, swallowing. "Of course. No, no. I understand. Harry Potter was a friend! Harry was all our friend!" Even to himself his voice, which he worked hard to maintain, sounded high, unnatural; in his mind, he was repeating and repeating the nonsensical sentence: Harry Potter was I. Harry Potter was I.

"No, this is the hardest on you, Severus. I don't want you to think I mean it in any other way."

"Hardest on me?" Snape snorted. "He never belonged to me. He only ever belonged to you – his Gryffindor friends. And now at last he belongs to Britain. He gave half his soul to fight Voldemort, and the other half to get rid of the dementors. He's not mine."

"But his heart – for the lack of a better word – was yours."

"Not mine."

It was not his because he had rejected it. He remembered with clarity that seemed to blind him, Harry – Jonathan – standing in front of him while the doors of St. Mungo's flapped like sheets in the wind – saying: I want to know what you want, Snape.

I want nothing.

And after that – after that (his mind's eye was hurting, like having stared at the Star of Truth for too long) – after that had come the question: Do you love me, Severus?

Severus Snape had let that question go answered, and in doing so had refused his claim on the man that was his life and his despair. Had he done so, the problems of Voldemort would not have been resolved, nor the lingering anger that Frost – who really was Potter – had left him, dissipated. Perhaps in the end the Kiss would have been inevitable. But nothing did not have a pit in the end. The time between was theirs. And Snape had let it slip away because he thought that it was not necessary to him, that his pride and despair and (he had to admit it) cowardice – his stupidity – were what was necessary. Well, he was right because he had turned out to be a coward. What he was left with were pride, despaire, cowardice, excellent hindsight and grief.

"What is the Ministry doing? Rehabilitating their hero, I expect?" Snape asked.

"Yes, they're doing it right away. I think the _Prophet_ is planning a week-long special on Harry."

"What an industry he's become. But I suppose this has ended the best way possible for you."

"Severus – "

"He would have wanted this too," Snape went on. "There was too much Gryffindor in him. He couldn't control the power, so he decided – what? – to give it back to Britain. How noble. How courageous."

Granger said nothing. Snape looked away, hating her. He thought – unwillingly – of what Lupin had said about Sirius Black and how true, how true it was.

"We managed to break the crackle ring," Granger went on. "We found that a good deal of crackle had been stolen in the last few days. The crackle dealers thought it was one of themselves, but I think it was Harry. Crackle loosens magic from the body."

"Yes," Snape said, hoping Granger would stop talking.

Granger was quiet for a while, but seemed unable to resist. "The _Prophet_ should mention you in their special, and how important you were to him."

Snape said nothing. He found himself looking at her – this woman, Granger, wearing a loose-fitting gown, bushy-haired pulled back around tired but calm eyes, holding a baby – her own baby. And his life was barren, and would be forever so. "You're satisfied with this ending, Granger," Snape said.

"Severus, I don't know what you mean."

"You do. You haven't shed a single tear that your old best friend is dead, and you're holding your new baby, whom you call Harry. Very well. All that's left is for George Weasley to be forgiven and for you to forget what you did to your firstborn."

Hermione Granger was still. "I don't understand why you're bringing this up."

She said, when Snape said nothing in response, "I did what was necessary, Snape. How dare you accuse me of forgetting what I nearly did to my Harry."

Snape took a breath and exhaled it, but said nothing.

Granger went to the window. "I'll never forget, but – you're upset." Shifting her bundle to one side, she leaned the heavy curtains aside. "I understand."

"Do you?" Snape said. He looked up sharply. "I don't think you do, Granger." He paused; distinctly, he saw Granger's shoulders turn rigid. Then, they trembled like rocks breaking under rain. Snape frowned and realized that Granger was crying silently. "Granger."

He didn't know what to do. When Granger finally turned around in jerky, sob-torn movements, he saw that her face was contorted, tears dripping on her face and onto the baby, which was beginning, ominously, to stir. "Granger, stop crying this instant," Snape ordered. It was useless.

What a strange reversal or roles, Snape thought. He led Granger to the couch and sat her down. "I saw – " she began, but stopped, her voice choked off. Snape went to the window and looked. There was nothing there out of the ordinary – the street, the walls that looked almost white to against the darkness of his room.

"What did you see?" Snape demanded, though he had an idea already. In any case Granger was in no condition to respond.

Snape tossed a pinch of Floo power into his fireplace. "Get me the Burrow!" he shouted. The green flames cleared eventually and he had a view of an empty room, quite a bit brighter than his own sitting room. "Hallo? Hallo?" He could hear, oddly, someone making a racket – a man wailing, wailing like the insides of old Azkaban.

There was a pop, and Ginny Weasley appeared. "Professor Snape!"

"Granger is having some sort of breakdown. You had better come here, before I toss her baby into the fireplace. It's beginning to produce noise."

Weasley nodded.

"She saw something from the window – a doppelganger, I expect. It affected her rather badly," Snape said.

"George saw one just now," Weasley said. "It's affecting him badly too. He thought it was Fred."

"I see."

"You'll be all right, Professor? If you like, I can get Aaron to sit in your kitchen."

Snape refused as flatly as possible, and, a little later, the room was empty. Silent. He went to the window and looked out again. Nothing went by, and nothing went past. The sunlight welled through the air and the glass and hurt his eyes.

Tibby had set out some sort of stew in the kitchen, and it was steaming lightly. Snape went past it to the bathroom: his mouth felt thick, and his head hurt dully. He opened the cabinet in which he kept all sorts of headache potions (his headaches had gotten more frequent as he got older). The sound of the cabinet shutting was loud, so loud.

Water splashed over his face – scrimmed his face, glistened. When he looked back up at himself in the mirror, he saw something behind him. He was not alone. Snape whirled around, wand out. But he was alone.

Snape killed the lights to the bathroom and went into the kitchen, downing the glass of water Tibby had set out in one breath. He realized he was empty to the point of nausea. When was the last time he had eaten? He did not feel like eating – footsteps.

He was in the doorway to the hall, wand out, in a flash. But there was nothing there again. Snape waited, listening intently. "Show yourself!" he commanded. Nothing responded.

He went to the bathroom. The face – his own face – in the mirror was haggard, drawn, the lines etched under his eyes and around his mouth darker than usual. The cheeks were thin and lips hard. He was ugly and old. Snape tapped his wand on the spigot, and water came; he thrust his face sideways under the water and scrubbed it with his hands hard, scrubbed at this hated apparition, when he felt hands on his back. Hands that melted into a body that stood close to his.

Snape straightened. The water was still running as he stared in the mirror and saw his face – and another. But when he turned his head, it was gone. "Show yourself!" he shouted shrilly.

But after he'd closed his eyes again, the water still flowing and flowing its narrow straight path into the drainhole, his hands still trembling, he felt the touch again. Snape did not move. He let the hands travel up to his shoulders, moving almost wistfully. And then he heard the voice in his ear: "Severus."

Snape turned and saw Harry Potter in the guise of Jonathan Frost. Snape regarded him for a while. "You're a doppelganger," he said at last.

"That's correct."

Snape shuddered. The doppelganger's voice seemed to echo endlessly against the tiles. "Why have you come to torment me, spirit?" He amended himself with a slow, shuddering breath, "Jonathan?"

"Yes?"

"Why have you come here, when you're already dead?"

"I am the spirit that hasn't departed yet. I am here for a limited time, Severus. Then I will leave you – as you say, cease tormenting you," the doppelganger said.

"You will leave me," Snape said, and went out of the bathroom into the hall and the dark of the sitting room. He threw back the curtains. White sunlight blazed in. When he turned his head, he saw Jonathan Frost's doppelganger stepping softly into the sunlight's frame, his head bowed, as though hesitant to enter.


	17. Out of the Ashes

**Chapter 17: Out of the Ashes**

* * *

Snape stood in front of the fireplace, regarding the doppelganger for some time. Finally, he said, "How long will you stay, spirit?" Another pause. "Jonathan?"

"Yes?"

"How long will you stay?"

"Not long," Frost said in a wistful sort of voice.

Snape snorted. "Days? Weeks? Minutes?"

"Hours."

Snape stood, observing the doppelganger, Jonathan. There was, Snape reasoned, no need to have qualms calling the thing Jonathan; Jonathan Frost had never been real. He had been like this doppelganger – a beautiful thing, illusioned. Its skin was very white in the light. It looked, Snape thought, like marble, the skin hinting at the muscle underneath, running gazelle-like down the sides of its body. Jonathan was regarding him too. "You've been drinking."

"No thanks to you," Snape said coolly. "Are you of flesh, spirit, or only immaterial substance?" The doppelganger did not answer. "Idiot! Are you pretending not to hear me when I call you spirit? You _are _spirit."

"You're good at pretending that I'm not what I am," Jonathan said evenly.

"But you are but a doppelganger."

"I am."

Snape felt his heart – even after all this, irrepressible, unlearned – sink, releasing something that had been like hope. "You were Kissed by the dementors?"

"Yes."

"Go on – " Snape gestured irritably. "Elaborate. Frost."

"I made a deal with the dementors. They would take his power and his soul. My power and my soul. Then the power would release them and be dissipated back to the wild, the sea and the earth and the skies, to which it belongs."

"I see," Snape said drily. "And you have come back to pester us because?"

"The power Voldemort stole belongs to each of the living. I went to each of them only to complete what had been begun. Gathering must be followed by dissipating. The living see me take the form of something that was powerful to them – a memory, a mute image."

"And you've decided to add voice to image in my case because?"

"His mind was always on you. My mind was always on you."

Snape looked away. He felt exposed, even though it was only a shadow in the room with him. And yet there was the sense of sea rushing through him. "Is that what's true, or what he – you – believed?"

"It doesn't matter what he thought. It doesn't matter what I thought. The past is the past. He was the only one who could change it. Now he is gone," the doppelganger ended wistfully. Snape felt, at last, a surge of irritation from the doppelganger's wistful tone and the persistent third person usage. It was as though he were dealing with a puppet, an animated mockery – but that was, after all, all that was in front of him. A mockery.

"Where is your body, Jonathan?"

The doppelganger shrugged its shoulders. "I don't know. I left it in a place of power, and then I couldn't feel it anymore."

"Is it dead?" Snape asked, bracing himself.

"I don't know."

Snape felt annoyed. "What do you know?"

Jonathan looked at him. Snape felt disturbed; he couldn't decide whether he was staring at a puppetry, as he thought he had been, or something with its own mind. In this moment he felt that it was a mind that he was looking into, one whose properties were terribly alien. "I am here because I had regard for you. He had a regard for you, Severus. But I will go."

"You're not a ghost, then."

Jonathan shook his head. "I'm the magic he possessed. I'm not his soul. I'm not my soul." Jonathan paused. "This is rather confusing. If only I didn't need to use pronouns."

Snape let out a grunt. "But you are an impression of Jonathan, and have his memories? Your own memories, I mean. You do. Then you remember – " Snape paused. "You remember the Birthing Spell in St. Mungo's?"

"I remember."

"You remember what you asked me there? It was the last thing he – you – said to me."

"I remember."

"Very well. I tell you now – even though you're only his shadow – that the answer – " Snape's breath hitched. "The answer is yes."

Jonathan's doppelganger shook its head. "Severus, there's no need to tell me that."

"Yes, I know," Snape snapped, "which is why I said, 'even though you're only his shadow' – "

"There's no need," Jonathan said quietly. "There's no need for unscrewing the past. There's no explaning that needs to be said. In this moment and this position, here in front of you, I am… different. Removed, if you will. I am," Jonathan frowned, "only the magic, I think. I am an image."

"You are an image," Snape repeated.

"That's right."

An image… Studying the form of a face and neck, the vase-like shape of the forearms that smoothed into hands, the delineations of individual ribs, Snape, perhaps, felt lonelier than before. He was staring at the mirror to find company. When, in the years behind, had Jonathan not been more an image than man? When had he – Snape – accepted the living thing?… The living thing had sparked the image but the thing that was etched with acid inside of him was image – not thing. What he left now and forever was also image, not thing; image animating image.

"Do you have long, here?" Snape asked.

"No."

"Are you…" Snape paused, hesitating. "You happen to be of sound as well as shape. That is unusual in a doppelganger. Are you also of seeming solidness? Can you be touched?"

"Why don't you try?" Jonathan said. He smiled as Snape drew near. "In your bathroom, I touched you."

"Yes," Snape said. He settled hands on the naked shoulders of the man. Closer now, the face gained life as though Snape really were looking down – here, in his living room – into the face of Jonathan Frost. Eyebrows rose in an amused sort of way, of their own accord.

"Severus," Jonathan's doppelganger said.

Snape did not answer. He bent down and put his lips on the doppelganger's. They were warm and soft, and moved against his lightly before Snape pulled away. He continued to regard the image before him, keeping as still as possible, because he felt himself as a heavy ball balanced on the summit of a smooth, ruinous slope.

But Jonathan got up. "Come on. Follow me."

"Where are you going?" Snape felt himself pulled gently, inexorably. The doppelganger, stepping out of the bright sunlight into the hallway's dark, and then into the dim light emanating from the kitchen doorway, looked as though it were flickering in and out of existence.

"Your bedroom, of course."

Snape pulled away a few steps from the doorway. "No," he said while wondering, wondering was this truly the image as he saw it? Was this what was in his mind?

"Severus," Jonathan repeated. He stood in the doorway, irresistable.

"It will be even worse for me…" Snape's breath hissed through his teeth. He had gone to the doorway and now Jonathan's body was firmly against his. There was closeness between them. They went, almost stumbling, to the bed, and now they were lying on it on top of the fresh sheets. (Tibby had washed them while he was gone.)

"Severus," Jonathan said again.

The name seemed to break a spell. Snape felt keenly aware of the brevity alloyed in this closeness, this image. He was touching something smooth, warm, solid – skin – but it was as though he had a sixth sense that was experiencing the image; it was the sense of loss, and every touch and contact registered keenly within that sense. Jonathan swept his hand down Snape's back. His back felt scalded.

"Do you remember when you brought him here for the first time? Brought me here for the first time? I think I slept on the couch."

"I thought you said," Snape said, "there was no need to unscrew the past."

"Hmm. But the past continues in the present, doesn't it?

"Sophistry. When will your time be up, spirit?"

Jonathan did not answer. He continued to run his hand up and down Snape's back, and it was like having his nerves pulled out from around his spine. Snape's face had nestled in the pillow when Jonathan had shifted his shoulder aside; the darkness became him. He thought he should repeat the question and address Jonathan by name, but he was almost too afraid to do so, in case an answer came.

But finally, his impatience won. "Jonathan, how long do you have left?"

"Not long."

Snape's breath hissed through his teeth. He hated vague answers, which were typical of the supernatural, and had been typical of Jonathan Frost. "You are always leaving me, spirit." There was no answer; Snape had, in fact, hoped for silence. "Two and a half decades ago. When you went to North Rona, spirit, and now."

The doppelganger stirred but remained mute, an image.

Snape's fingers stiffened. "I don't want you to go, spirit. I want you to stay," he muttered into the pillow. It didn't matter that the doppelganger heard him because it was an image, a thing that didn't exist. Snape opened his mouth to say more, but the words that he intended to say, which were against his nature – that he loved Jonathan – Harry – though he hadn't decided on the name he'd say, before realizing he'd only need to use the second person pronoun – failed. And yet this failure was forgiven already; the doppelganger, doppelganger had said so.

Jonathan moved again, and Snape wondered fearfully if the doppelganger was preparing to leave. He could feel it shifting restlessly. Perhaps it would slip out of the bedroom, step out the front door like a guest, or a stranger. Likelier, he thought, it would simply disappear, as was the wont of doppelgangers. The doppelganger continued to move – languidly – and Snape wanted to look up: what if this was the moment before its disappearance? What if in another moment he would be holding air, blankets, sheets?

He didn't lift his head. He would regret it. He would be spared the image of the image's death. He remembered that when he was small and lying in his bed at night, he believed faeries would come into his room and look at him, but only if he remained very, very still. He had pretended to be asleep, though more made of stone than asleep, listening, listening. Keeping so still.

"Professor Snape!"

Snape jerked back in surprise. The sound was from his sitting room. He looked down instinctively, and saw that the side of his narrow bed was empty. Jonathan's doppelganger had gone.

The voice calling him ("Professor Snape!") recurred. Snape tilted his body so that his feet brushed the ground, and, leaning himself forward onto his feet, he felt old, old. The hallway was blurred as he walked through it. It was his tears, he knew.

"Professor Snape!" Ginny Weasley's head said, looking absurdly excited.

"Weasley?"

Weasley paused, as though she were struggling to contain herself. "There's something you should come and see immediately. I'm in the main entrance of the Ministry of Magic, the lobby."

"What are you talking about, Weasley?"

"There's something you should see right away," she said again. Snape didn't know whether to summon invectives or not, but it was unlikely that Weasley orchestrate some kind of prank – she had been part of Potter's Gryffindor posse, after all.

He nodded. Weariness nearly overcame him. "If this is one of your inane Gryffindor games, Weasley…" Snape threw a pinch of the Floo powder into the fire. "Ministry of Magic!" he announced and stepped into the grate. The magic whirled him around – and in the split-second that his back was to the fire, his front to his sitting room again, he saw a movement – thought he saw a movement – Jonathan's doppelganger, was that – ?

Snape stumbled and, embarrassingly, had to be caught by Weasley. The Ministry atrium was a mess. Each of the entrances had been barred, and, before them, journalists (Snape felt his ire rise) clustered in packs. A few were talking to wizard cameras, as though giving reports. Snape crossed his arms over his chest and stepped towards the wall. The back of his eyes hurt from receded tears.

"This way," Weasley said, in her element. "Excuse me, please! Auror orders! Out of the way!"

Snape followed closely. He was recognized right away. Someone grabbed his elbow; he was in no mood for courtesies and snarled at the man. He decided that he was going to hex Weasley if this whole affair turned out to be for something inane, which it likely was. Things eased when he took out his wand in a very visible manner.

"Thank you, and the Minister will issue an amended official statement shortly," Weasley shouted. She turned. "This way," she said, and led Snape, suspiciously, in the direction of the Auror offices.

Weasley said quickly, "I'll tell you why we're here as soon as I can. But we're still too close to the atrium – we haven't swept this area very well. There might be a Hearing Spell from a few days ago, when we weren't as careful."

"If this is a ploy of yours, or Granger's…"

"No, Hermione's still at the Burrow. Her doppelganger really did a turn on her."

"Have you seen your doppelganger, Weasley?"

Ginny hesitated, but then said evenly, "Yes. It was my father. I saw him in the Burrow garden."

"I see," Snape said. They were going around a corner, and as he looked down the corridor, his eye drawn by its long vertices to its end, he saw someone disappear behind the mirroring corner. His throat constricted – was that – ?

"It's Harry."

"What?"

"He's alive, Professor Snape, and he still has his soul." Weasley was talking now through a smile that looked ready to take wing and fly off her face. "Harry's okay."

Snape stared.

"He's lost his magic to the dementors – all of it – Aaron said there was so much of it that the dementors didn't have space for his soul, if that makes any sense. But he'd been under one of the dolmen arches of Stonehenge. There was an even bigger magical disturbance there, than around North Rona. Aaron found it, actually – he used a variation of the trolleriometer – Professor Snape?"

Snape dropped the hand he'd reached to the wall in order to steady himself. "Potter… Where is he?"

"Mad-Eye insisted on scanning him. I told Cormac to make sure he's not being too ridiculous about it. They're in the Auror wing break room. We're almost there."

"You're taking me to him?"

"Of course!" Weasley said. "A Muggle tour group found him and filed a missing person report. But by then Harry was already trying to get to London without giving himself away… We're trying to keep it as quiet as possible, of course. The journalists are all insane."

Snape faltered. "He's there – ?" They were in a short hall with an open door on the right side. He could hear voices – Moody's voice. A voice replying. The wall his hand sought and found felt subtly rough; it had been sprayed with a texture before it had been painted over, a technique to cut albedo. Snape exhaled – air hissing through his teeth. He felt afraid, he felt lost. He felt like a dog, cornered, barring its teeth and ready to bark.

But the moment existed only for an instant. Weasley was saying something, but he went ahead, without once looking back.

" – wanted to be released, so I guess they didn't want my soul. How many times do I have to tell you?" Harry Potter was talking. He was talking to Moody in an exasperated tone, his hands gesturing about in a Gryffindor way, and his back to the door.

That was how Snape saw him in that moment. He saw Harry not as an image, but as something a thousand times more alive than an image: the ruff of messy hair aimed at him, unaware, alive, alive. He paused, letting – more than letting: willing the moment to sink into him. Weasley would catch up with him soon. Then Weasley would speak, call Harry's name. And then Jonathan would turn. And Jonathan would turn to him. And Jonathan would turn.

_the end_

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_A/N: Thank you, reader, for reading, and having read. Another hearty thank-you needs to go to Procyon for the support and help given me over a couple hundred thousand words. Now, let your indulgence set me free: a review would be very, very much appreciated._


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